


Just a Taste

by volleydorkscentral



Series: Just a Taste - [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: (Beginning in Chapter 14):, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Chefs, American AU, Bokuto is a decidedly not fancy chef, Don't copy to another site, Eating Disorders, Kuroo is a pretentious fancy chef, Lots of French, M/M, MatsuHana and Akaashi are all beautiful models, Mentions of PTSD/ED related things, Recovery dealing with Eating Disorders and Abuse, There are tons of other characters peppered throughout this story but there are too many to tag, Wordcount: Over 200.000, Yaku is a tiny pastry Gordon Ramsay, but they learn from each other, inside are more kitchen shenanigans than should be allowed, mentions of sexual abuse, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2019-10-02 07:34:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 41
Words: 213,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17260169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volleydorkscentral/pseuds/volleydorkscentral
Summary: “If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen,” is a popular saying… heat, however, is the least dangerous thing one should worry about in a kitchen. Between the fire, sharp utensils, red hot pans, the Mandolin God, and lunatic co-workers, Kuroo has his work cut out for him when he returns home from Paris after nine years to open his own restaurant. He’s determined to show off —ahem,to demonstrate all that he’s learned at the helm of world renowned chefs in Michelin Star kitchens.Bokuto Koutarou tends to have more passion than sense. He joins Kuroo’s brigade on a whim after nearly slicing his hand off… and realizes just how much knowledge he’s actually lacking. He’s worked in kitchens his entire life, but none like Kuroo’s kitchen so, with excitement and trepidation, he throws himself into his work with Kuroo. And when he meets a lovely model named Akaashi, he decides to use his new found knowledge to help Akaashi fall in love with him. After all, the fastest way to a man’s heart is his stomach — right?





	1. dans la merde

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, hey, hey! If you follow me on tumblr you'll probably have seen excerpts from this that I've been working on for months. Well - it's finally here! I plan to update this twice a week in January, then once a week after that because I'll start posting another AU I've been working on as well.
> 
> Also, there's lots of BokuAka in this story, too. I can't help it, they took over just like the took over my heart, so the Kuroo/Tsukki is sort of a slow burn.  
> Be mindful of the tags, as I will update them with each chapter that needs it. Heavy topics will be touched upon at a later chapter so PLEASE keep that in mind. 
> 
> HUGE THANK YOU TO HONESTLYHAIKYUUTRASH ON TUMBLR. She helped me basically plan out this ENTIRE thing. Were it not for her, this would have been a one shot. So, you're the best!! I'm eternally grateful to you :)
> 
> Anyway, hope you guys enjoy! It's gonna be a LOOOOONNNGG ride, so hang on to your frying pans!
> 
> (Update) [ @LuckyLera is translating this into Russian!](https://ficbook.net/readfic/8500021)

Flame and smoke. Steam against the gleam of metal. The smell of frying onions popping in his ears, charred meats assaulting his nostrils with their delicious smells. Kuroo stood in the midst of it all, the chatter of the cooks calling times, the clatter of plates being brought back from the dishwasher and piled high at the pass to be sent right back out carrying his masterpieces to customers. He loved his kitchen. Raising his hands, he dictated the symphony, smiling to himself with his eyes closed and envisioning the—

“What are you doing, you weirdo?” Kai asked as he slipped past him to the meat station. He was the _sous chef_ , but he and Kuroo had been working together since Paris, so many years ago, so it didn’t really matter who was technically the boss, Kai would always tell it to him straight.

Kuroo inhaled a long, enticing breath, smiled to himself, and rested his fists on his hips. “I’m setting my intentions.” He took a ticket from the pass and glanced at it, raised his voice and called, “Three covers table seven! One risotto, one lobster, one cauliflower puree.”

“Heard, chef!” Chorused back at him from his brigade.

Kuroo thought he should really take some of the items off the menu. Maybe take several dishes off. They were all received so well, though, and he hated to kill them. Every dish had been painstakingly created, often times by himself after a twelve hour shift when he was finally alone in the kitchen. No matter how much he loved the rush and chaos of the dinner service, being alone and creatively free in the early hours of the morning was what made him able to really savor the art of food.

Kai clicked his tongs in Kuroo’s face. “Chef, you get your head out of your ass, _nous sommes dans la merde_.”

“I know. So busy, and the night is so early still.” Kuroo smiled, waved a hand at him and turned to the pass as Yamamoto and Bokuto laid down their food for him. Kuroo dipped his tasting spoon in the first pot and scowled at it after tasting it.

“Bokuto, what’s this?” Kuroo snapped, showing him the creamy substance.

“Purée?” Bokuto told him, but hesitating.

“It’s trying to be, but it’s not. Season it a bit better, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Bokuto took it back. “Sorry, Chef.”

“Don’t worry about it, just do it right.” Kuroo grinned at him. He leaned over, curling the sliced aromatized radish around the meat, placing a perfect tiny spoonful of caviar just off center, wiping the plate and setting it in the pass as Bokuto brought him his finished purée. After a quick taste he said, “Perfect, my man,” and poured it into a dish. “Where’s my—thank you.” He plated the cauliflower purée and garnish then sent it, calling to the servers, “Go table seven.”

Kenma came into the kitchen, hair pulled back in his ponytail and looking miffed. “Kuroo,” he said, sticking his head through the stainless steel pass. “We’ve got a critic.”

Kuroo raised an eyebrow. “So? Just another customer.”

“He came to the bar to get a drink and he…” Kenma’s face shifted, going into his _I hate all humans_ mode. “He was really intense.”

Kuroo laughed. “You say that about everyone.”

Kenma groaned and walked out, slipping past the servers and going back to his bar. Yaku had said it would be a bad idea to put a guy like Kenma as head of the bar, but Kuroo had found that he was able to keep the customers filled with enough alcohol and gentle words to coax extra tips out of them that Kenma used for his video games. If that wasn’t a reason for Kenma to work hard Kuroo didn’t know what was. He turned, just as someone screamed—his eyes casting about for the purpose—and saw one of the young _commis_ chefs holding his hand to his chest. Kuroo moved immediately around the counter and reached for him. “What happened?”

The boy, young and just out of culinary school, whimpered, his face ashen as blood seeped through his fingers. Kuroo glanced at the cutting board and his stomach flipped, his own fingers jolted in remembered pain. The mandolin. Of course. Nearly every chef and cook in a hurry will suffer at the hands of the bladed instrument. Kuroo tugged Yuuki over to the sink and ran his hand under the water. The boy whimpered again, and Kuroo groaned softly. He called over his shoulder, “Someone find the tip of his finger.”

Kai was running the pass expertly in his absence, but he noticed that what Yuuki had been slicing was what they needed to refill the vegetable station. That would set them back ten minutes. One of the porters came to clear Yuuki’s station, and, with a disgusted face, dropped the detached piece of Yuuki’s finger into a cup of ice in case it could be reattached. Kuroo was unsure, the bleeding wouldn’t stop. It tinted the sink red even through the flow of water. He dug out his phone and called an ambulance then plopped Yuuki in the corner on a stool with a towel against his finger.

Bokuto looked over, the master of wounds, and shouted, “You’ll be fine lil’ dude!”

Yuuki didn’t even seem to hear him, his eyes glassy and far away as he clutched at his hand. Kuroo pulled another one of the apprenticesand ordered him to begin remaking what Yuuki had been doing. “And don’t hurt yourself, for the love of God,” Kuroo told him sharply. The boy, Inuoka, always eager to please but not always quite knowing how, nodded and set to work.

When Kuroo got back to the pass he discovered, to his horror, that they were out of several things and each of those things were what the critic had ordered. He cursed himself… the prep was on the way, but it would take too long. The critic’s table would take almost half an hour and that was unacceptable. Unavoidable. Shit.


	2. hor d'ouevre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter... don't worry, they get longer :) bear with me!

Kuroo had happened upon the empty restaurant quite by accident. He had been on his way to lunch, but when he saw the _For Sale_ sign he forgot all thoughts of eating. Peering in the window, he saw the long dining room, the sheet covered tables, the bar tucked in the corner. It could easily hold a hundred and fifty covers if you set the tables and booths up correctly. There were wide double doors behind a curve in the wall and the gleam of a white kitchen was visible through tiny port windows. His heart began to beat harder at the thought—his own kitchen. His own restaurant. The whole reason he had come home from Paris. He took down the number and called it standing right there in the street.

He waited forty five minutes for the owner to meet him, then he was given a tour of the restaurant. The dining room would need to be gutted and decorated to something that wasn’t awful. Remove those carpets, and give the walls better wallpaper. Something classy. The kitchen… was almost perfect. Most of the equipment was basically new, still gleaming silver and chrome. He would have to replace the dishwasher and most of the pots and pans to something more suitable to a professional kitchen. Copper, cast iron, aluminum, and stainless steel. Not the knock off Martha Stewart pans that were stacked around the place.

The owner took him to what would become his office, which was currently covered in dust and old papers. They talked for two hours about money and loans and all the other technical aspects of transferring property ownership. At the end of it, Kuroo had a plan, needed to get to the bank to apply for a loan, and needed to call several people.

As he strode to the subway he called his oldest friend and before he could even speak Kuroo blurted, “Kenma, I found a restaurant!”

Kenma was quiet for a long moment then: “Well you went out this morning to go eat at one so—”

“No, no. I mean I bought one. “

Dead pan, not even sounding like he’d paused his video game, Kenma said, “You went out for lunch and bought a restaurant.” He was just sarcastic enough to show his disbelief.

“I never made it to lunch.” Kuroo stopped and leaned on a bench. “Come work for me.”

“I have a job already.”

“You hate your job,” Kuroo pointed out.

“I can’t cook, either.”

“No, no,” Kuroo assured him, “you won’t cook. You’ll be my bar manager.”

Kenma actually paused his game, Kuroo heard the music stop, and considered this. “Bar manager?”

“Yeah, you’d do well. It’s just a lot of memorization and reiteration. Making drinks and keeping drunks from driving.”

“Do I have to?” But Kenma didn’t sound like he hated the idea.

“Think about it, Koz, you’ll have a salary but you’ll also get tips. No cap on that money. You can make a hundred bucks a night. Maybe two, if you do it well. How much are your games now? Sixty? Seventy?”

Kenma took a moment to think. “Limited editions can be even more expensive…”

Kuroo grinned, slapped his hand against the bench. He had him. “When I get the place in a few weeks, come by and check it out. You’ll like it.”

“All right.”

“Do you know where Yaku went?”

“Some bakery in Queens, I think.”

“You got his number?”

“Mhm-hmm, I’ll text it to you.”

Kuroo sighed happily. “This is going to be great.”

“As long as you don’t abandon it.”

“Oh come on. You’re not still mad?” But Kenma had hung up. Kuroo shoved his phone in his pocket and tromped down into the station. When Kuroo had gotten an invitation to France at the young age of seventeen, he had taken it and ran from New York City, where he’d been born and raised. He had spent nine years in Paris working under amazing chefs at Michelin star restaurants. Nine years working his way up through the ranks, fighting alongside other chefs for their places in the culinary world, learning everything he could.

Unfortunately, that had meant leaving in a rush. Dropping all his plans and most of his friends because he hadn’t known when, or if, he’d be back. He and Kenma had spoken only sporadically… and it had hurt Kenma dearly. He wasn’t shy about reminding Kuroo how he was still angry, even now, at being abandoned by his best friend.

Now, Kuroo was home. Back in the City, he was going to open his own restaurant and show the world what he’d learned and how far he’d come. He was going to blow everyone away.

But first he’d have to find a team: a brigade of chefs that were not only smart, but also capable and just as hungry for it as he was.


	3. mise en place

Sitting in what was now his office, Kuroo looked through the avalanche of résumés that littered his desk. He pulled several out, ones that looked promising, then stopped when he came across a name: Kai Nobuyuki.

His friend, the man he’d worked with in Paris for nine years. He picked up the phone and dialed and when Kai answered Kuroo said, “ _Mon frére! Comment ça va_?” He and Kai had been as close as brothers, had even been roommates for several years.

Kai was quiet half a heartbeat, placing the voice he hadn’t heard in months and, when he did, he laughed gently. “ _Ah, je vais bien, merci. Et toi_?”

“Better now that I’ve found you. Are you in New York?”

“Yes, I only came here two weeks ago. I thought I would not find a job so quickly,” he said, laughing.

“Ah, well I’m looking at your résumé right now. I’m opening a restaurant. I’d like you to be my _sous_. I trust you more than anyone and already know how good you are. The kitchen is lovely, we can make a symphony together. Will you come?” Why beat around the bush?

“ _Bien sûr,_ ” Kia said quickly, falling back on the trust they built up over the years. “I’m free tomorrow. I will come by.”

“Kai, my friend, I love you.”

Kai laughed, his French accent strong and comforting to Kuroo’s ears. He’d missed him in the few months they’d been apart. “ _Toi aussi, à bientôt._ ”

 

* * *

 

“Damn,” Yaku said, looking around at the stainless steel jungle of a kitchen.

Kuroo grinned, nudged him with an elbow. “You like it?”

“Un-fucking-fortunately.” Yaku sighed. “It’s huge. It’s lovely. I hate you for it.”

“You can come and work here. I’m personally inviting you.”

Yaku looked around, turning on the spot. “Where exactly would I work? In that tiny little corner?” He nodded towards a back corner where there was an induction stove, marble slab, small oven, and refrigerator tucked under the counter.

Kuroo raised a finger in a _be patient_ motion then stepped away, crooking his finger so that Yaku followed him. They walked past the dish room and Yaku snorted. “What, you got me in the dregs?”

“I’ve got you something magnificent.” Kuroo pushed open a large swinging door with a tiny port window and held it open for him.

Yaku poked his head in the doorway, and his mouth fell open. “Goddamn.”

Kuroo waved him inside, stepping aside to give him room to look around. Yaku moved around the room, peering under counters and into industrial mixers, sticking his head inside the oven, running fingers over the brick oven that had been installed by the last owner, and checking the seals on the under counter refrigerators. When he was finished with his inspection, obviously pleased, he turned and half glared at Kuroo. “This is beautiful.”

“Why do you sound so angry, then?” Kuroo laughed, leaning on the frame of the wide swinging door.

“Because I fucking love it.”

“You’ll come, then? This whole pastry kitchen will be yours. _Chef de pâtissier_.”

“Head Pastry Chef?”

“That’s what that means.”

“I’d get to design my own desserts? My own plates? Dessert menus?”

Kuroo smiled, waving his hand in an all encompassing motion: _this is yours_.“Of course.”

Yaku took a deep breath and nodded. “Yeah. Give me a few weeks. I’ve got to put in notice.”

 

* * *

 

Finally, weeks after the initial phone call, Kenma came to the restaurant. He hovered in the office, looking around and hunching in on himself.

“Want a tour?” Kuroo asked as he searched through his desk for the book he’d bought.

“I guess…”

“Ah-ha!” Kuroo sat up, held out the little black book. “Here, I got this for you. It has tons of recipes. You can just memorize them before we open.”

Kenma took the book, flipped through it. “And when will that be?”

“I don’t know, at least three, four months. It’ll be a while.”

Kenma nodded, then set the book on the table. “This place is bigger than I thought it’d be.”

“Go big or go home.” Kuroo came around the desk and moved out into the kitchen. “I’m going to replace these walls with glass, y’know, keep everything open. Look, over here is the hot plate, where we plate everything. Then we’ve got this big ass grill over here—I love it. And,” he ran his palms over the cool cast iron flat top stove, humming with excitement, “this is one of my favorites. Everything in this kitchen is gas—real fire.”

“Seems dangerous,” Kenma pointed out.

“No, no,” Kuroo told him. “Fire is a chef’s best friend, and look here”—he moved over to several large boxes and pulled the top of one open, revealing glimmering copper and stainless steel pans. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

Kenma laughed, but he was just humoring him. “Yeah they are, sure.”

He didn’t understand, but Kuroo shrugged it off. Kai got it, the other chefs would. “Let me show you the bar,” Kuroo said instead, closing the box and striding out into the main dining room. Kenma followed after him and frowned around at the dining room.

It had been gutted: the carpet ripped up, the wallpaper scraped off, the tables all shoved against one wall. The bar was a lovely, dark supple wood and had space for hanging glasses, a little fridge and freezer, a tiny sink, and room for prep. Kenma frowned at it then moved behind the bar to poke around.

“Hey!” Kuroo beamed. “You look good back there.”

Kenma shot him a glare, then sighed and lifted a hand up, making sure he could reach the glasses. He nodded, satisfied. “This is nice. It’s better than I thought it’d be.”

“I wouldn’t have bought a shitty restaurant.”

“They closed because they were shitty.”

Kuroo shook his head. “They closed because their head chef died and no one knew how to replace him.”

Kenma paused, then shrugged. “That sucks. So, how much are you going to pay me?”

Kuroo laughed. “How much do you want?”

“Twenty an hour.”

Kuroo snorted, amused and appalled at the thought. “Yeah, right. Let’s say ten an hour until we open, then drop it down to eight and you keep any tips you make.”

Kenma raised one eyebrow in a _what-if_ question. “And if I end up being really good?”

“Then I’ll make you front of house manager and you can keep the ten and the tips.”

“That’s better.”

 

* * *

 

Several weeks later the brigade was filling out nicely. He’d hired several people from the résumés: a young pastry chef straight out of school named Lev; Sugawara, a bread maker with years of experience in a private bakery that made fresh bread and bagels every day; Inuoka, a young cook that had worked in a fine dining establishment in Manhattan; a loud chef from Los Angeles named Yamamoto; and a man with a snappish tongue and quick hands named Daishou to work the bar with Kenma.

Staff came in daily now, working hard to organize the pantry and cold walk-ins, to learn what they needed to in order to live up to Kuroo’s high standards. Kai took his role as _sous chef_ seriously and took the young cooks under his wing to train them on each station to find out what they would be best at.

Kuroo was setting up his kitchen like the brigades he’d worked with in Paris. He would be _chef de cuisine,_ head chef, responsible for the hot plate, or pass. That involved calling out tickets, most plating, quality control, and any support he could give his staff. Kai was his _sous chef,_ his second in command, his eyes and ears. He would also be _rotisseur_ and _grillardin,_ responsible for all the meats in the kitchen during service.

Yamamoto had an eye for art, so as _saucier_ and _sauté chef_ he would not only work the hot appetizer station and make most of the sauces for every plate, but he would back up Kuroo on plating the meat and fish dishes when he needed it.

Inuoka, as the youngest of the brigade so far, was eager to learn, eager to please, and bounced from station to station, trying to find his place and excelling at everything he did because of his passion for the job.

Kuroo struggled with the menu. He wanted to create something that would blow people away from the get go. Did he go French? High class fine dining? Bistro? What? He wanted to do his own special _Kuroo style_ but… he wasn’t quite sure what that was yet.

 

* * *

 

His next chef Kuroo found while wandering aimlessly during one of his fuck all, too exhausted to sleep walks through the city. It had been a long day, a long night, nothing had been accomplished, and now the walk in freezer was not freezing and no one could figure out why.

The alley probably wasn’t the safest place for him to be, but the front of the building and the sidewalks surrounding it had been jammed packed with people: drunks and druggies, people too loud to know their loudness, dressed less warmly than they should have been in March, shivering and sniffling and glaring at the hostess behind her podium. The only all night diner in town and it served bar-b-que and steaks, pastas and french fries, things the tourists and the population loved and would come back to time and time again.

Kuroo had gone around like he always did to avoid the crowded sidewalk, cutting through the dank smelling spaces between the buildings. It was there he found the man crouched on an overturned milk crate, lighting a second cigarette off the stub of the first then spitting it out and crushing it under heavy black work boots. He wore a tattered chef jacket, stained to hell and back, sleeves rolled up to his shoulders, and a yellow bandana holding his soaking wet silvery hair back. His eyes were locked on that space between death and infinity and he was holding one hand to his chest, wrapped in a blood stained dish towel.

Kuroo paused, hands in his overcoat, staring, marveling at the smell of him: the sweet sour tang of onions clung to his skin, the smoke of meat drifted from his coat, and the coppery tang of blood emanated from the towel. “Are you alright?” Kuroo asked, more to satisfy his own curiosity than anything else.

“Mhm? Oh, yeah, sure,” the man said, smiling as he sucked in nicotine. “Just got a knife wound.”

“You cut yourself? Seems pretty deep, judging by the amount of blood. Why don’t you go to the hospital?” Kuroo knew that chefs didn’t always respect their bodies when it came to wounds, and he himself had foregone a trip to the hospital when he probably should have gotten stitches… but the man’s wound seemed excessively dangerous. It really was a lot of blood.

“Nah, we’re in deep shit. I just needed a few minutes to let the aspirin kick in before getting back.” He was shaking, though whether from cold or from the adrenaline it was impossible to tell.

Kuroo was impressed with the dedication the man showed. “You work here?”

“Yup, two months, longest of any of the guys in there.”

Kuroo stared, baffled, and glanced at the grimy back door held open by a half broken beer bottle. “Wait—what is this?”

“Some fuck all touristy shit.” The man laughed, cigarette smoke puffing from his lungs. He lurched to his feet, swayed a bit and pulled the dish towel back to peer at his injury.

Kuroo leaned over to see, fascinated like most chefs by the pain of others and the story behind it. “Oh, _merde,”_ he muttered to himself, baffled and disgusted and fascinated all at once.

The man looked up at him and gave him an odd look, but gave his attention back to the cigarette bouncing between his teeth as he crooked a vicious smile. “Nasty, right? Yup, went right through.”

Having seen many wounds in the kitchen, some that required only a band-aid, while others needed stitches, and a few needing surgical correction, the man’s wound still shocked Kuroo. A slit in the man’s hand was the exact width of a chef knife between the third and fourth knuckles, pierced clean through the meat of his hand like Jesus’s crucifixion. Blood oozed like molasses around dried clumps of crusted, oxidized older blood. His hand was stained a mottled red brown from it, fingers trembling and bent like the claw of some predatory bird. Kuroo saw dark lines on his wrist and wondered if they were more wounds. The man peered at his hand with the shrewd eye of someone with nothing left to lose. He was self medicating a knife through the hand with aspirin and he was suddenly the most badass person Kuroo had ever met.

“You have to go to the hospital!” Kuroo demanded, aghast, feeling the emptiness of his stomach boil and roll as it attempted to dispel the queasy feeling.

The man laughed, tucked the towel back into place and pulled duct tape from his wide pant pockets. “Nah, really, I’m runnin’ late already. It’ll scar, but it’ll be fine probably.” He ripped the tape with his teeth, wrapping it snugly around his hand. The flex of his fingers was accompanied by a hiss of air pushed through his teeth, illuminating the tip of his cigarette to glow softly in the darkness. His voice had a certain tilt to it that Kuroo couldn’t quite place. It was the specific way he let the last syllable of his words tumble from his mouth, or how his he let his r’s dangle, or the slow, slightly drawn-out sounds of his vowels. He sounded like he was trying to hide where he was from, or match the sharp, bouncing way of city talk, and only sometimes managing it.

The door banged open and a small fat man stuck his head out. “Bokuto, motherfucker, get your ass back in here. We’re in the weeds.”

“Gimme twenty seconds,” Bokuto called, sucking the last bit of his cigarette until the burning paper met the filter and was no longer safe to hold.

“You’ve got five,” the man said, ducking back inside, the door hitting the glass bottle so hard it shattered.

“You can’t be serious,” Kuroo told him. “You shouldn’t be on the line right now.”

“Dude.” The man, Bokuto, laughed in his face, but not cruelly, pleasantly, like Kuroo didn’t know what he was talking about. “I’m about halfway through a nine hundred cover shift. If I leave now, I’ll be out of a job.”

Incredulous, Kuroo had to ask in case he had heard wrong, “You do nine hundred covers a night?” Covers were each individual person in service that ordered a plate. A popular restaurant would do two or three hundred. Kuroo has never done more than four hundred in his fine dining career. Nine hundred was massive. Nine hundred was insane. Nine hundred was a literal hell.

“Friday nights, sure do, only four of us tonight so…” Bokuto dropped the dead cigarette and bounced on his toes, steeling himself, words forgotten as he began going through the mental exercise of the line cook in the weeds.

“Wait,” Kuroo said quickly, pulling out an already scribbled on napkin and a sharpie, writing his name and number down on a whim on the smallest of white spaces. “Get your hand fixed, then call me. I might have a better job offer for you.”

Bokuto took it, raised one arching eyebrow at the offer, then both at the half-assed menu planning Kuroo had been drawing on it. He looked up, eyes locking with Kuroo, a wicked grin on his face. “You don’t know me.”

“Anyone with your dedication I want working for me.”

Bokuto nodded, slowly, then folded the napkin and hesitated, unsure if the delicate paper could survive the night in his cooks whites and stained checkered pants. They were already soaked in sweat and the fluids of the kitchen (oils, stocks, butter, and blood, to name a few) and were only going to get worse throughout the night. “Shit I’m gonna fuckin’ destroy this,” he said to no one in particular.

The door opened again, a small skinny boy hanging from it, bussers apron tied around his neck. “Yo, Johnny’s callin’ for you.”

Bokuto waved his injured hand. “Yeah, yeah, tell him I’ll be back in a fucking second.”

Kuroo had pulled out his phone, opened a fresh contact and held it out. He took back the napkin and passed Bokuto his phone. After a moment where Bokuto struggled to type with one hand, he gave the phone back. Kuroo read the name: Koutarou Bokuto. “I’ll call you soon. I’m opening a restaurant in a few months. You’d be perfect.”

Bokuto grinned. “Hell yeah, can’t wait. Thanks, man.” Then he turned and, with a sarcastic wave with his speared hand, vanished with the boy into the restaurant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French translations: 
> 
> mon frére - my brother  
> Comment ça va? - how are you?  
> je vais bien, et toi? - i'm fine, and you?  
> bien sûr - of course  
> aussi - as well/too  
> à bientôt - see you soon  
> merde - shit  
> dans la merde - in the shit (in the weeds: chef speak for REALLY REALLY STUPIDLY BUSY and everything has gone wrong and nothing is okay)


	4. concasse

Even though sleep came sparingly, Kuroo always found himself down at the farmers markets in the early hours of dawn. He liked wandering the stalls, smelling the fresh fish before they began to bake in the sun, running his fingers over the supple skin of fresh fruit, and smelling the vegetables just pulled from the earth, still damp and moist.

Many of the old ladies that ran the fruit and vegetable stands would call out to him, telling him just how fresh their things were, enticing him to _come and take a look, take a bite, here try this one it’s delicious, I’ve had this orchard in my family for generations._

He would go, he would taste, he would purchase, having crates of things set aside for him, which he would haul back to the restaurant at the end of his shopping trip. Taxi cabs hated him for it, but with a little extra tips he could usually coax them to help get all the crates and boxes into their car.

At the fish stalls he touched the smooth scales of blackfish, flounders, and sea bass. One morning he stood studying the eyes of a striped sea bass when he saw another man beside him holding one up to his face and peering into the fish’s mouth.

Kuroo chuckled, setting his fish down and wiping his hands on a towel. “What are you doing?”

The man, dark hair, sharp eyebrows, intense eyes, looked over at him as if he were the odd one. “Checking for freshness.”

“Oh? And what does the mouth tell you?”

The man smiled, turning the fish and saying, “The gills, more than the mouth. They’re not lying, these were caught last night.”

Kuroo nodded. “Good, I need fresh bass for the menu I’m working on.” He waved the fishmonger over, picking up several of the choicest animals and having them packaged on ice to be delivered.

The man was watching him with wide, intelligent eyes. “You have a restaurant? Or you just work in one?”

“I have one. Why? You looking for a job?” He said it jokingly, and was surprised when the man gave him a leveled, serious look.

“Yes.”

Kuroo blinked, then laughed, just a bit taken aback. The man was straight to the point. “Can you cook?”

“Very well.”

“Oh. Well…” Kuroo hesitated, but he continued, “Come by my place and we’ll see what you can do.” He held out a hand to him and told him where the restaurant was. “What’s your name? I’m Kuroo. Kuroo Tetsurou.”

The man nodded curtly. “Fukunaga. I’ll come today.”

“Sure thing. Show me you can work with fish and you’ll have a job.”

Four hours later, Fukunaga Shouhei joined Kuroo’s brigade with a whole baked striped sea bass with lemon and mint. Kuroo hadn’t had such good fish since Paris. “Damn,” he told Fukunaga. “I think you’d be a good addition to my crew. You like working with fish?”

Fukunaga nodded, wiping down the counter. “Very much.”

“Perfect, I need a _poissonnier.”_

 

* * *

 

With the fresh taste of lemon still in his mouth, Kuroo went back to his office to draw up the paperwork for Fukunaga Shouhei. While he did, he decided to call Bokuto to see if he could get him to come in as well. He worried that Bokuto would have forgotten him. After all, Kuroo was just a strange man in an alley.

Instead, the line was picked up after four rings, with Bokuto yelling, “Sup?” over the clamor of a kitchen.

“How’s the hand?”

A laugh, loud and boisterous, then: “Not infected yet, I don’t think it’ll fall off anytime soon. Hurts like a sonofabitch”—he said it all fast, like one word—“so I think that’s a good sign.”

“Good. Can you come by my kitchen tomorrow? I’d like to see what you can do.”

“Sounds fun. Love the smell of new equipment.”

“I’ll text you the address. Say, ten am?”

“Can do. Thanks! Gotta go, up to my elbows in prep.”

“No more knife wounds.”

“Deal.” The line went dead and Kuroo smiled to himself, pleased at the addition of another musician to his symphony.

Bokuto arrived early the next morning, coat buttoned up and looking freshly washed, gazing around with a knowledgeable and appreciative eye, already looking like he belonged. Kuroo met him at the door, waved off a confused Kenma, and asked, “Your hand?”

Bokuto raised it, now wrapped in clean white gauze and taped down to keep any bacteria out. “Got some good painkillers so it’s all good. Doctor says there won’t be any lasting damage as long as I don’t do it again. Says I’m really lucky.”

Kuroo nodded slowly. “Can I ask what happened?”

Bokuto rolled his eyes, gesticulating wildly with frustration. “Johnny likes to freeze these big ol’ piles of shrimp. No one thawed them before service and we ran out halfway through. I was trying to do too much at once and just stabbed right through.” He laughed again, like a madman, pantomiming the motion with a fierce smile. “I honestly didn’t even feel it at first. Johnny was pissed I got blood all over his shrimp.”

“Ah…” Kuroo didn’t know what he hated worse in that statement and was momentarily thrown off. The frozen shrimp, using a knife to stab at it, or not paying attention so badly that he had stabbed himself. He saw now that Bokuto’s hands had several tattoos, and he squinted, trying to get a better look.

“What?” Bokuto asked.

“Your ink.” Kuroo chuckled. “What is it?”

“Oh.” Bokuto turned his injured wrist towards the light to show the outline of a fork, knife, and spoon drawn into his sensitive flesh. “Then I’ve got these, too. They were fun.” He laughed, a bit self-deprecating, as he held up his right hand and showed Kuroo the side of each of his fingers. On each was a small, rather detailed, drawing of a knife. On his index finger and the most visible was a traditional chef's knife, on the middle was a butcher's cleaver, the ring finger a fish boning knife, and on the pinky a small paring knife. The lines were fuzzy looking, not having healed right and being under the constant stress of movement.

Kuroo whistled, impressed. “Must have hurt, being on the bone like that.”

“I was drunk.” Bokuto placed his hands on his hips, gazing at the gleaming stainless steel, the white walls, the flat tops, and gas stoves. “Nice place you got here. Got any food?”

“Of course. Care to show me what you can do?”

Bokuto beamed. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Thus, their friendship began. After a tour of the kitchen Bokuto set to work, only hindered slightly by his injury, and made a dish that Kuroo asked for on the spot based off the ingredients he pulled from the shelf on a whim. Bokuto stood a moment, eyes flicking through the invisible library in his mind, then set to work, looking as comfortable in the kitchen as if he had been born there.

Kuroo pretended to go over ordering receipts and supply lists while sitting hunkered on a stool at the pass, watching Bokuto as he worked. Even with his injury, he was quick and sure of himself. Kuroo could tell he’d been working in kitchens for most of his life by the ease and swiftness of his movements.

Fifteen minutes later, a decent amount of time considering the lack of prep work, Bokuto presented a small dish of three golden seared scallops, a swirl of butternut squash purée, onions and golden raisins decorating the white spaces. Bokuto sucked purée off his injured hand as he presented the dish to Kuroo with a whip like flourish, accidentally skewing the vegetables to roll off center.

Kuroo pushed his papers aside and plucked a spoon from the tasting cup, dipping it in the purée. “Well, your knife cuts aren’t great, but I’ll forgive that since you seem to only have one and a half hands.”

Bokuto scoffed. “They’re pretty good.”

They were relatively close in size but Kuroo pushed a large onion dice and a smaller minced piece towards the edge to demonstrate. Bokuto pursed his lips in annoyance and Kuroo saw the disappointment on his face. “But the scallops have good color, and they aren’t raw or overcooked, so I’m impressed. Not many line cooks can make scallops like that.”

“I’ve worked in, like, thirty restaurants, not all of them were like that shit hole you saw me at. I can cook a fucking scallop.” He said it with a pride that made Kuroo wish he’d known the man for longer—maybe he’d have been able to teach him and mold that pride into a more distilled version of the talent he already bestowed.

Kuroo laughed, sticking the purée in his mouth, liking the flavor of it. From the touch of chive and the sourness of the red wine, the saltiness of the capers, to the richness of butter. “Why’d you use butter?” He asked as he poked one of the scallops, piercing it and revealing the perfectly cooked inside. He pushed it through the purée, picked up a small raisin, put it in his mouth, and chewed slowly, more impressed than he thought he’d be at the way the flavors played together so well.

Bokuto considered a moment, trying to put to words what his experiences had taught him by instinct and trial and error. “To make it more rich.”

Kuroo nodded, accepting this. “And did you remove the foot?”

Bokuto blinked, then groaned. “Shit”—he said it so it was three syllables _she-ee-it—_ “No. I forgot. Fuck!” he scolded himself, looking thoroughly pissed off and smacking his good hand into his leg in frustration.

 _Good, that means he won’t forget next time._ The scallop, while delicious, was chewy from a muscle that should have been removed before cooking, a mistake that Kuroo would never allow any of his chefs to make. “Tastes good, otherwise.”

Bokuto smiled, pleased. “Really?”

“Yeah, I like it. Could you come back tomorrow? Work a real shift? We’ve got menu planning to do.”

Staring wide eyed in disbelief, Bokuto watched as Kuroo ate the other half of the scallop, dragging his finger through the purée and licking it off. “Are you serious?”

“I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t.”

“Even with my hand?”

“I assume it’ll be better by the time we open, but I also assume you wouldn’t let it stop you.”

“No way!” Bokuto laughed again, leaning on the counter, rubbing his palm on his apron, jittery with excitement. “Hell yeah I can come tomorrow. Gotta call Johnny and tell him to kiss my ass.”

Kuroo laughed. “You ever quit me that way and I’ll come after you, understand?”

“Yes, Chef!” Bokuto beamed, then Kuroo pushed the plate to him and Bokuto picked up a scallop with his bare fingers, popping it into his mouth and turning to clean the station he’d been using.

 

* * *

 

Every place of work had one. One person that was kind, pretty decent at their job, hard working, but a bit daft.

Haiba Lev was that person. He was too tall for his body, all limbs, and not experienced enough to move with confidence in the kitchen. He was forever knocking into the edges of counters, stubbing his toe on equipment, or dropping cases of food as he tripped over his own feet. The staff had even begun keeping a tiny chalkboard with tally marks for each time Lev dropped equipment or food, and had begun a betting pool for each week that went by. The highest tally count so far was fifty two…and Bokuto had won two hundred dollars from the collective staff.

The pastry shop was smaller than the main kitchen, but still sizable enough with three ovens(one of them brick), several standing racks, long counters, and equipment lining the walls of the room. Yaku ran it like it was a naval ship: his word was law as if he were God inside those walls. He and Suga would spend their days cooped up together, hunched over _pâte à choux_ dough and baguettes, exchanging formulas and arguing over the amount of salt to put in French bread. Lev was simply along for the ride—all his culinary knowledge was from a classroom setting, and most of it was in the form of recipes and not formulas.

Many baked goods were made with baker’s percentages, also called flour weight, the ingredients known by ratio to one another rather than by any specific recipe. That way a baker could make anything he desired, in any amount, if only he knew how much flour would be used.

“Lev, it’s not that hard,” Suga said, laughing, pointing to a formula on the whiteboard that resided in the kitchen. “Look, French bread is the easiest thing to remember.”

Lev leaned against the counter, his face scrunched up as he read the board and it’s many numbers. “How much is one hundred percent?”

Yaku snorted in derision. “It’s whatever you need it to be. Did you not go over this stuff in school?”

“I think so… in our first semester three years ago…”

Suga shook his head, trying to bridge the gap between master baker and novice. “Experience is the better teacher, anyway. Look, no matter how much flour you have, that will always be one hundred percent. Then for French bread it’s sixty six percent water, two percent salt, and just over half a percentage of yeast. Understand? So say I give you fifty pounds of flour. How will you make bread? What are your ingredient weights?”

Lev scowled at the board, squinting as he tried to work out the math in his head. “A lot?”

Wordlessly Suga handed him the marker, then he and Yaku stood back and tried not to laugh as Lev laboriously worked out the easy math. When he was done he turned and looked at the two experienced bakers nervously.

Yaku looked it over critically but Suga smiled at it. “Well it’d be a very stiff dough but it would work.”

“Fix it,” Yaku said, “then make it. Oh, but we don’t need that much… use twelve ounces of flour.” He turned and moved to the other side of the kitchen to gather ingredients for truffles he planned on making that afternoon for Kuroo’s approval.

A few hours later, bread successfully baked, truffles given approval, they were making meringues for pies. Yaku was piping the tops while Lev was supposed to be torching them. He couldn’t quite get the flame on though, and was struggling with pressing the gas down and lighting the thing at the same time.

“Come on, Lev,” Yaku said, leaning over one of the pies. “Gotta move fast if you want to stay in this kitchen.”

Lev muttered an apology, then he clicked the butane torch and, like magic, the flame appeared. Lev shrieked with glee, just as Yaku screamed in pain.

The gas had been wide open and the flame had gone long, scorching Yaku’s hair. Lev dropped the torch, it clattered on the counter and tumbled to the floor, spraying flame at their feet.

“You idiot! You moron! _You utter ass._ What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing!” Yaku screeched at the top of his substantial lungs.

Lev was on his knees, fumbling for the torch, trying not to burn himself, and switched it off as Yaku stood above him screaming. He yelled, voice pitched high and squeaky, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! It was an accident!”

“You never never let the flame go on like that! _You inconceivable doughnut!_ I can’t fucking believe you!”

Kuroo poked his head in, then came fully into the room when he realized something was going on, holding his hands up in a _whoah whoah_ motion. “Hey, yo, what seems to be the problem?”

Yaku was red in the face, the edges of his hair singed and smoking. “Get out!” It was unclear who exactly he was talking to, glancing at Kuroo then snarling at Lev again.

Lev backed away, rising to his feet and stepping back, shrinking away from Yaku’s fury. Kuroo stepped over to them, taking the torch from Lev and glaring at Yaku. “Stop screaming. What happened?” he demanded.

Yaku glowered around him, pointing at Lev. “He’s an idiot. And a nuisance! I want him out!”

Kuroo slapped his hand. “No! Calm down. I won’t fire him for”—and here, Kuroo snickered, eyeing Yaku’s burned hair—“firing you. You’re fine.”

Yaku flushed red. “You asshole. He set me on _fire._ ”

“He singed you. You’re fine.”

Yaku gave Kuroo the blackest look he could muster then kicked the trash can and stomped out, swearing as he forgot that slamming a swinging door didn’t have the same effect as regular doors.

Kuroo looked over at Lev, who was pale and wide eyed. “What happened?’

“It—It was an accident… I didn’t know the flame was locked on… and I just…”

Kuroo sighed, and picked up both torches. “He’ll be fine, don’t worry. Clear down, yeah? Make it spotless and he’ll forgive you.”

Lev nodded, still dazed, and began to pick up dirty dishes as Kuroo finished piping the meringues and brûléeing the tips. Kuroo took both torches with him when he left the kitchen, planning on buying a small lock box to keep them in for the safety of the staff.

 

* * *

 

Bokuto essentially had to begin anew in Kuroo’s kitchen, like an apprentice, until Kuroo judged his culinary skills better. He spent hours dicing vegetables for _mirepoix_ (two part onion, one part carrot, and one part celery) and even longer hours sitting overnight watching the stock in the enormous steam kettles tucked against the wall with two faucets. Kuroo was _Chef_ for all of twenty minutes until he became _friend_ , and then he was _Kuroo, dude, bro,_ and _yo_ depending on how fast Bokuto needed to get his words out.

This kitchen was a world away from the low down, trashy, _quantity over quality_ kitchen he’d left. He had worked in nice kitchens, but nothing that looked as nice as this. And not the way Kuroo did things. He had trained in a two and three Michelin star restaurants in the heart of Paris and it showed in everything he did: from the organization of the pantry and the walk-ins, the chatter and banter behind the line in half French half English, to the names of the chefs in the kitchen (exotic names like _chef de cuisine, rôtisseur, legumier,_ even the food runners, called _hey asshole get back here_ in Bokuto’s experiences, were dubbed elegant _aboyeurs_ ).

Kuroo would spend a few hours with him every day, teaching him the basics all over again. Bokuto thought he’d hate it but Kuroo was a great teacher, polite, careful, patient, and Bokuto learned more about onions in a week here than he had in his entire twelve year career. It was heaven. When he wasn’t working with Kuroo he was working with Kai, the sous chef, who was a quiet, reliable presence, always quick with praise and easy with critique.

Bokuto worked the cast iron flat tops and the gas burners when he was allowed to be creative, to play with the food, and got to know the equipment like a new lover. The last six kitchens he’d worked his way through had been using electric equipment, old deep fryers, and dirty microwaves, so the new equipment was practically making him _hard._

“Kuroo, come taste this, yeah?” he called over his shoulder, dropping his food onto a plate with more care than he had anything else in several years.

The tall, lanky head chef came over and waited for Bokuto to present his dish before looking curiously at it. “What is it?”

“Grilled prawns from this morning, melon salad, mint and lime,” Bokuto explained, turning off the burners and wiping his hands on his side towel. The knife wound was mostly healed by now, more of an annoyance than anything else. He couldn’t curl his left hand fingers all the way closed, but he was right handed anyway so he didn’t think it would cause him too much trouble.

Kuroo nodded his approval, picked up one of the prawns and took a bite, grinning. “Oh, very good. The lemon works really well. I like it. Have you made this before?”

Bokuto’s heart swelled with pride, he couldn’t hide his smile. “Nah, but a guy I knew way back used to make this lemon sauce for shrimp and I just thought… y’know, I could do it better.”

Kuroo laughed. “That’s what I like. As soon as we think we’re good at what we do, we stop improving. Never stop improving.”

“Absolutely.” He stacked his dishes, then ate a prawn. “Can I duck out for a minute?”

“For what?”

“Smoke.”

Kuroo’s face darkened and he rolled his eyes. “Oh, right. I forgot you had that vice. You should quit.”

Bokuto actually laughed aloud. “Dude. Every cook I know chain smokes three packs a day, it’s a necessity in this industry.”

“It fucks up your palate.”

“You just said my food was good!”

“It is, but I don’t want your quality to dip. Seriously,” Kuroo picked up the plate and turned to go, “consider quitting, your life will be so much better.”

Bokuto scowled, dumped the pans into a bus tub, and took it to the dish room. Kuroo wasn’t wrong and it pissed him off. He’d tried to quit for years, but after sixteen hour shifts in shit holes… it was hard to justify. Maybe here, it would be different. Maybe here, it would be better.

Instead of going outside Bokuto cleaned his dishes and wandered into the pantry, looking for inspiration for the next thing he could make for Kuroo.


	5. emulsify

The entire brigade was complete. Everyone had settled into their roles well and they were a month out from Kuroo’s tentative opening date.

They hovered around the long counter in the kitchen, food laid out like a buffet. This was one of Kuroo’s favorite parts of the day: the family meal. Every person who worked in the restaurant, every cook, every waiter, the prep cooks, dishwashers, and the barmen all gathered around and shared a meal. It was like Thanksgiving every day. Yaku and Suga would make pies, Kai made whole racks of meat, Bokuto made delicious Southern comfort foods like collard greens fried in bacon fat or creamy macaroni and cheese with a bubbly crust on top.

Kuroo sat at one end of the table, chewing on a piece of asparagus. “So, I think I’ve figured out what I’m going to call the place.”

Bokuto looked up, mouth full. “Eh?”

Kuroo laughed, shaking his head, then motioned to Kai. “ _je sais pas,_ ” he intoned, and Kai frowned.

_“Quoi?”_

_“Le nom sera ‘je sais pas.’”_

Kai didn’t understand.

“Okay, stay with me,” Kuroo pointed between them with his asparagus. “What’s the usual conversation people have when they’re trying to decide where to go out to eat?”

They exchanged glances, and Kenma leaned over to say, “The first question is normally: Where do you want to go?”

Kuroo pointed at him. “Yes, and next?”

Bokuto said, “The other person usually says: I don’t know.”

“Precisely,” Kuroo said, just as Kai burst out laughing. He slapped the table. “Ah, he gets it!”

“None of us speak French.” Kenma rolled his eyes.

“ _Je ne sais pas_ means _I don’t know,_ ” Kai explained, still chuckling. “ _C’est bon, je l’aime._ ”

“ _Merci, merci._ ” Kuroo grinned as the other two laughed.

 

* * *

 

And so in the early days of June _je sais pas_ officially opened its doors. Their opening night and every night for the next two weeks were fully booked. They flipped the restaurant at least once each night, so they were doing nearly three hundred covers a night.

Now, though, they were _dans la merde._ In the shit. In the weeds. Fucked, basically. Too many orders and not enough hands. They had a critic, but Bokuto couldn’t believe that it would go well tonight.

Everything that could go wrong in the kitchen had gone wrong. Yuuki had sliced his finger half off and was off at the hospital. Servers smashed into each other, spilling entire tables that had to be re-fired on the fly. Whole trays of food dropped by prep cooks from running too quickly and tripping on the non skid mats or running into someone. Ten minutes before service began, Inuoka hadn’t been paying close enough attention and had an accident, a deep cut along his knuckles from chopping vegetables. He was working with a half pound of gauze wrapped around his finger to staunch the blood. It bulged luridly from the glove he was wearing and would have been ridiculed for looking like a piece of male anatomy had they not been too busy to speak.

The vents overhead were on full blast and the burners on Bokuto’s stove kept going out. He was having to crash the bottoms of pans against the cast iron at an angle to create a spark and coax the burner back to life. He did this until Kuroo whipped around, screaming at him to stop, his stress levels rising exponentially and bursting out of him.

Bokuto yelled back, “Fuck off,” and turned away, back to his vegetables, trying to sauté vegetable medleys, blend purées to smoothness, steam green beans to perfect doneness without losing their color, and about a million other things all at the same time. He’d been appointed _etremetier_ —responsible for hot soups, vegetables, and sides, so he was always busy. But now, _dans la merde_ , he felt like he was wading dangerously close to losing the rhythm and sending them even further over the ledge into Hell.

Kai called, “Veg for salmon, thirty seconds to the pass.”

Was that the critic’s table? Bokuto couldn’t remember. He knew there was one, but Kuroo didn’t seem to care overmuch, treating the critic like any other customer, so fuck it, Bokuto would just do his best with what he had. Kuroo yelled something at him, but he was too focused to hear the words, snarling at the mashed potatoes he was having to make in the middle of service since most of it had been dropped ten minutes ago and grew sticky and firm on his shoes. “Come on you cuntin’ cunt,” he said to his cubed potatoes, “fucking cook, you bastard.” He’d learned that his food loved being talked dirty to.

Suddenly Kuroo stalked over and snatched his collar, shook him like a dog, dislodging the bandana in his hair so it fell down in his eyes. Bokuto flipped around, throwing his elbow up like a fighter to throw him off.

“Hey, you troglodyte, pay attention.”

“Fucking get your hands off me,” Bokuto snapped, his accent sounding harsh and thick in his distress, pushing the yellow cloth back into his hair.

Kuroo loomed over him, their mere inch height difference enunciated by Kuroo’s fury. “Watch your goddamn mouth and don’t fucking yell at me.” Kuroo had a porcelain plate in his hand, a dish sent back from the dining room. “Your purée is too salty.”

“Fuck you, no it’s not.” Bokuto glared, waving a hand.

“Do it again,” Kuroo ordered through gritted teeth.

“Fine,” Bokuto growled back, turning away, not doing as he was told. He snatched a pan that had rotated over the flame, burning his hand and not fucking caring because he didn’t have time to care.

“Now, Bokuto!”

Bokuto turned, snatched the plate, and shoved it into Kuroo’s chest in a smooth movement he’d learned from a previous head chef that had used the move on him. “Back the shit off, dude.”

The dish smashed to the floor, pieces vanishing under the stoves. Kuroo leaned close, spitting out his words. Bokuto didn’t hear them though, because his fist moved of its own accord, smashing into the side of Kuroo’s cheek.

Chaos ensued. Kuroo hit him back ( _burst of pain, white flash turning red_ ) and Bokuto shoved him hard, holding his coat, hauling him back with all the force he could muster until he slammed into the grill. Kai grabbed Kuroo’s arms, preventing him from being burned, yelling at them both: “ _Stop it! What are you doing, CALM DOWN!_ ” Yamamoto jumped in, wrapping his arms around Bokuto’s middle and yanking, throwing him back. Bokuto and Kuroo snarled at each other like rabid animals, bitter enemies, and Bokuto flipped him off.

“Fuck you, Chef.” He turned and stormed out, shoving past the small gathered crowd of prep cooks, and slamming the door behind him.

His heart beat out a pounding rhythm, too fast, like the old days of cocaine highs that he’d run screaming from. He dug out a cigarette from his pocket and had to stop his frustrated walking, focusing on settling his shaking hands in order to light it. His arms ached, his jaw throbbed, and he felt the blood pooling under his skin, promising to be a beauty of a bruise in the next few hours.

 

* * *

 

Kuroo panted angrily, fists clenched and glaring at the backdoor as it swung closed. Kai’s hand was a steady presence on his shoulder. “ _Oi, ça va? T’es blessé?_ ”

“I’m fine,” Kuroo said curtly, turning away, back to the pass, back to the tickets.

Fukunaga handed him ice wrapped in a towel and Kuroo pressed it to his cheek for a few minutes while he called the next tickets. Then: “Kai move to veg, I’ll do meats.”

His sous moved aside, handing him the long handled tongs. “What about Bokuto?”

“He’ll be back,” Kuroo said, annoyed and poking a filet with a knuckle. Not done yet, another minute.

Fukunaga raised a questioning eyebrow at him from across the fish station. “He took his apron,” Kuroo explained. “Left his knives. He just needs to cool off. We’re fine, guys. We got this.” He wasn’t strictly sure that was true, they weren’t just in the weeds now, they weren’t even in the garden anymore. They were fucking off in the neighbor’s yard, lost beyond all hope.

“Still a dick move,” Fukunaga muttered, swirling butter around a pan until it sizzled then dropping shining pink salmon skin side down.

“Oh, he’s going to be doing all the prep tomorrow. And a full shift,” Kuroo snapped. “He’ll learn we don’t fuck around here.”

Kai smirked knowingly at his friend. “You really like him, don’t you?”

“Unfortunately.”

 

* * *

 

The bar was a strange place, Bokuto thought as he muscled his way through the crowd. He’d never been here this early and he rather hated all the civvies. This was where many of the cooks came to cool down after the heat of the dinner shift. Now though, it wasn’t men and women in cooks whites and drinking bottomless beer, smoking like chimneys, and popping amphetamines like tic-tacs because more than half of them had a shift in four hours and wouldn’t have time to go home and sleep; it was regular people, the people who didn’t spend twelve hours over a stove burning their hands to calluses or deboning chickens like savages, just normal people who would send dinner plates back because of the smallest thing, even if they were wrong about it. Like seasoning, or the temperature of a steak. He hated them.

He hunkered down at the bar, yanking the bandana from his hair and wrapping it around the burn on his hand. It was red and swollen, the shape of the pan handle clearly visible. No blisters, though, and he was grateful for that.

“That looks painful,” the bartender said.

Bokuto had a snippy response on the tip of his tongue, _of fucking course it is, mind your own business,_ but when he raised his eyes and saw the bartender (not Alec, the usual guy) the words fizzled out on his tongue. The man’s steely eyes were the color of storm clouds filled with lightning. They were fixed on him with a level of concern for a stranger that Bokuto would never have shown. He had lovely high cheekbones, faux sapphires in his earlobes, and was much too thin, his throat all hollow bolts and pointy collar bones underneath his stylish tank top.

“Uh,” Bokuto mumbled, his mind all fluttery, trying to swallow the molasses sounding way he spoke thanks to his upbringing in the South. “I mean… it’s fine. I’ve had worse.” Still he heard Atlanta in his voice and hated it. People had made fun of his accent the further up the East Coast he'd worked, and he'd begun to try to hide it but, as was still pointed out to him sometimes, he wasn't great at it.

The man raised his perfectly plucked eyebrows. “You’re a chef?” He nodded to Bokuto’s clothes: white coat half unbuttoned and filled with pens and thermometers, checked pants, and a dirty apron.

“No,” Bokuto replied. “Just a cook.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“Yes—well, no. Not really. Chef runs the restaurant and the menu and stuff. I just… cook it.” He frowned, frustrated all over again because Kuroo wasn’t like that. He encouraged everyone in the kitchen to create… everyone had made the menu today. Usually the menu always boasted Kuroo’s specials, but Bokuto had created the salmon dish, and even Inuoka had hands on two different dishes during the creation process. Kuroo was the best chef Bokuto had worked for… and he felt like shit for walking out now. He shouldn’t have. He shouldn’t have hit Kuroo, especially. That was a dick move. He’d lost his head. Tempers had been high, he had been sweating through his coat, they were busy and stressed, and nothing had been going right. He’d reacted like he would have with Johnny, with some shit boss… but Kuroo wasn’t that. The walk to the bar had boiled off most of his anger, leaving only shame in its wake like a burned demi-glace. He’d have to go in early tomorrow, do grunt work, make something creative and exciting and, most importantly, apologize.

“Ah, I see,” the man said. “Can I get you something?”

“Uh… double whiskey, neat, and I’d prefer it if you just gave me the bottle, honestly.”

The man laughed. “Cheaper to just buy the bottle, yeah? But I can’t do that.”

“Mhm, shame,” Bokuto murmured. The man laughed, and went to get his drink. Bokuto took the time to pull off his apron and fold it into his pants pocket, and gratefully drank down half the drink when the man brought it to him.

The bar was busy but the man hovered around him, ignoring the drunk women at the other end shrieking for him to take off his shirt. Bokuto glowered at them, then asked to distract the man, “Where’s Alec? Isn’t he the bartender here?”

“For the overnight shift, yes. I’m the night shift. He’ll come in,” he glanced at a watch on his fine boned wrist, “in about an hour and a half.”

“Ah,” Bokuto said, finishing his drink and grinning when the man had the bottle ready to pour him another. “That makes sense.”

“What?”

“I’ve never seen you and I’ve been coming here for months. But I don’t get here till maybe one thirty or two.”

“Oh you’re a part of the wild bunch that Alec is always talking about.”

“Must be.” Bokuto grinned. “What’s your name?”

“Akaashi,” the man said, wiping his hand on a towel and extending it.

Bokuto was pleased, Akaashi had extended his left hand in deference to Bokuto’s injury on his right. “Bokuto.” He was fascinated by the shape of Akaashi’s hand, so small and delicate. Bokuto thought he might accidentally crush his bones.

Akaashi smiled at him. “Do you want some ice for that?”

Bokuto hesitated, curling his hand protectively around his burn and flinching at the pain it caused. “You’re not supposed to ice a burn.”

“No,” the man smiled sweetly, reaching and touching his cheek with his fingertips, light as a feather, “for the bruise.”

Bokuto felt a blush in his face and swallowed his immediate reaction _come home with me_ because that was wildly inappropriate. It had been years since Bokuto had had a real relationship … the work hours made it nearly impossible. “Oh, yeah. Sure.”

Akaashi smiled, brought him a handful of ice wrapped in a towel, and Bokuto pressed it to his jaw with a wince. “Thank you,” he said.

Akaashi leaned on the counter, chin in his hand. “What was the fight about?”

 _God, he’s so pretty._ “Uh...something stupid. It was my fault…”

“Ah, and you admit it?”

Bokuto sighed. “Well, I hit him first.”

“Why?”

“He… just… has higher standards than I do, I guess. I got mad when he asked me to refire some purée... “ He felt even worse talking about it, and swallowed his drink in one big gulp. Akaashi was right there to refill it.

“What do you cook, then? Where do you work?”

“I work over at—”

Someone called Akaashi, and he slipped away, smiling apologetically, but leaving the bottle close enough for Bokuto to grab it when he needed to. Good thing the boss wasn’t around, or Akaashi would have been fired. Bokuto thought that if that happened he’d ask Akaashi to stay with him to make it up to him… to take care of him. He looked like he needed feeding.

He spent the next two hours drinking steadily and planning the foods he would treat Akaashi to. Wonderful wines, deletable seafood, perfectly seared filets, homemade pastas, the possibilities were endless. He was swaying with his drunkenness, he hadn’t seen Akaashi since their last conversation, and now Alec stood in front of him, waving a hand in his face.

“Yo, bro, you gotta go.”

Bokuto looked up, saw two Alecs, and ducked his head again, dropping it into his arms and moaning. He thought he killed more than half the bottle and he was hammered. He hadn’t eaten other than tasting foods during his shift. “I’m dead,” Bokuto told him, tongue too heavy, voice too thick and words slurred even to his own ears. He couldn't imagine how drunk he sounded. If it was half as drunk as he _felt_ …

Alec chuckled. “Gonna be okay? Don’t throw up on my bar.”

Bokuto could only moan into the wood. A hand touched his shoulder, feather light touch familiar, and he lifted his head, surprised to find Akaashi behind him.

“Hey, you live close? Can you make it home?” Akaashi smiled at him, looking amused and worried.

Bokuto couldn’t remember where he lived, didn’t know how to get there, couldn’t even tell Akaashi this. So, with a wave at Alec, Akaashi pulled him off his stool and they stumbled outside.

“You’re heavy,” Akaashi told him as Bokuto leaned bodily on him. “Where do you live?”

“Mhm… Brooklyn, I think, now?”

Akaashi grumbled, “What do you mean you think?”

“I’unno.” His words were slurred and he had to stop to lean against a wall. “Move a lot.”

Akaashi folded his arms, watching him and looking worried. He glanced at the nearby subway entrance and huffed. “Fine, come home with me.”

Bokuto looked at him and couldn’t stop the wide smirk that spread onto his face. “Ooooooh?”

Akaashi shook his head. “I just don’t want you getting lost and sleeping in a gutter.” He pulled Bokuto up. “Hurry, we’ve got to catch the train.”

Bokuto followed him, stumbling sometimes and getting honked at when he almost fell flat on his face crossing the street. They somehow made it to the subway and sat themselves on a seat across from a couple that didn’t care overmuch for politeness and were practically having sex.

Bokuto leaned on Akaashi’s shoulder, heavy and drowsy, the motion of the train making him dizzy. Akaashi was on his phone doing something with emails but Bokuto’s eyes were crossing too much to read it. “I’m gon’ throw up.”

“No, you’re not,” Akaashi said, nose wrinkling and pushing Bokuto away from him. “Not on me at least.”

Bokuto moaned, clinging to the rails on the side of the seat and hanging on for dear life, willing himself to not regurgitate liquor all over the train. He managed it, barely, and Akaashi hauled him off at the right stop.

“Come on. I can’t carry you.”

Bokuto stumbled along beside him, clinging to Akaashi’s shoulder as they walked a few blocks and Akaashi stepped up the large brick steps to a brownstone. He pushed Bokuto inside and up the curving stairs in the middle of the parlor. “I’ve got a bathroom you can throw up in if you want.” He pointed to a door to their right, just past the stairs.

Bokuto made a beeline for it, too quick to even appreciate the hardwood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French -  
> nom sera - name is  
> t'es blessé? - are you hurt?


	6. les oeufs

Bokuto floated in and out of consciousness, his brain unsure if it should bring his body to life or to simply let him die. He couldn’t open his eyes and felt his stomach rolling as it tried to empty itself yet again. He wanted a cigarette, bad, knew it would settle his stomach.

“You brought a stranger into our house,” a voice said directly in front of him.

“He’s not a stranger,” a different voice answered, farther away, but familiar. “Alec says he’s a good guy.”

“He could be a murderer.”

“If we get murdered by a hung over drunk who couldn’t even stand properly last night then we probably deserve it for letting our guards down so much.”

The close voice laughed, then something jabbed Bokuto in the cheek. He groaned, opening his eyes halfway to assess if there was any danger in the poke. After the world materialized he saw, to his horror and delight, a man that was completely naked except for very tight black underwear. It didn’t leave anything to the imagination, either. He was drop dead gorgeous even with his disastrously messy black hair and two long slender bars through his left eyebrow, and he seemed to know it for he smirked at Bokuto when his eyes widened.

“Good morning,” the man with dark eyes said, resting his arms on his knees as he crouched in front of the sofa.

Behind him, Akaashi hovered, looking concerned. He wore a fashionably slumpy cardigan and tight black leggings and he looked like it was the middle of autumn instead of late June. “I’ll get you some water,” he declared, then padded away to the depths of the house.

“Who are you?” the other man asked, giving Bokuto a studious once over with his eyes, not bothering to hide his disdain.

Bokuto felt like a slob in his dirty t-shirt and boxers, and sat up to get away from the man’s gaze. He held his spinning head in his hands, moaning. “Bokuto…” he muttered once the nausea had passed and he was sure he wouldn’t throw up the moment he opened his mouth. He couldn’t possibly have anything left in his stomach, but it didn’t seem to know that. “And you?”

The man stood, resting one hand on his scantily clad hip.“You ruined our bathroom.”

“Shit…”

“Well, nothing a lot of Lysol couldn’t fix, but it was still gross.”

“….Sorry, really. I don’t usually get like that—”

“I don’t care,” the man said. “But you owe us for letting you sleep on our couch.”

Coming back from the kitchen Akaashi said, “Mattsun, don’t be rude.” He handed a tall cracked glass to Bokuto and sat beside him.

Bokuto sucked down the water, grateful for any hydration. “Thank you,” he said sincerely to Akaashi. “And not just for the water.”

“You’re welcome. Like I said last night, I didn’t want you collapsing in a ditch somewhere.”

“I really appreciate it.”

“You can repay us by making us breakfast,” the man, Mattsun, said loudly, pointedly.

Bokuto looked up at him, blinking, his hungover brain unable to comprehend fully what he was talking about. “Huh?”

“You’re a cook, right? I see your jacket. You can make eggs, surely.”

Bokuto had worked an overnight shift at an all night breakfast diner for six months. “I can make more than eggs.”

Akaashi shifted on the couch then hugged his knees to his chest. “Do we even have eggs?”

Mattsun shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “Come with me, drunkard, let’s see what you can make.” And he walked away through an archway that Bokuto assumed led through to the kitchen.

“Sorry,” Akaashi said, leaning his cheek on his knee. “He’s rather stubborn. You don’t have to—”

“No, no.” Bokuto smiled, finishing the water. “It’s the least I can do. How do you like your eggs?” He stood and pulled his pants on then picked up all the shit that had fallen out of his pockets: phone, pens, thermometer, cigarettes, lighter, and a tiny notebook for recipe ideas.

“Uh…” Akaashi hesitated. “Plain?”

Mattsun yelled from the kitchen, “Hey, come on, I’m hungry.”

Bokuto went through the packed dining room, stepping over boxes of various knick-knacks that had spilled and no one had bothered to pick up, and into the kitchen. He was directed to the pantry, where the pans were, and he managed to find eggs that were still in date, a small bottle of almond milk ( _who drinks almond milk,_ he thought), and bread that was past freshness but not moldy. “Do you have spices?”

“Like what?” Mattsun leaned on the table, distracting Bokuto with his lithe, naked form.

“Cinnamon, nutmeg? Uh,” Bokuto glanced around, “salt.”

“Oh, yeah.” He pointed to a cabinet and Bokuto opened it and was immediately bombarded with McCormick spice jars. They clattered to the floor as Mattsun cackled. “Oh, good, we’ve been scared to open that cabinet for days. Clean that up, would you?”

Bokuto picked up the bottles from the floor and quickly organized them by usefulness, keeping the ones he needed. He didn’t mind, he could clean and organize a kitchen in his sleep. He slapped a pan on the stove and began searching for bowls, cracking eggs, making a spice blend, and slicing the bread into broad, fat slices. Mattsun left, which was a blessing because he had been staring at Bokuto with intense dark eyes that made him nervous.

Bokuto found a tub of margarine in the fridge, cursed it for not being real butter, and set it to melt in the pan. He loved eggs, he loved making them, he loved their shape and their taste and their color. He loved everything about them. Legend had it that a chef’s toque, the tall white hat seen mostly in cartoons now, had exactly one hundred folds and the chef would only receive one as a reward for knowing one hundred ways to cook eggs, one for each fold. Hard boiled, soft boiled, hard and soft scrambles, the ‘perfect’ scrambled, omelettes, frittatas, hashes, sunny side up, over easy, medium, and hard, poached, inside toast, outside toast, on muffins, cooked into potatoes or cakes and custards, whipped into meringues—too many to count. Bokuto liked eggs soaked in milk, vanilla, and half stale toast spiced with cinnamon, ginger, cloves, and a touch of nutmeg, then fried to perfect brownness in too much butter. French toast, basically, but it was more than that, really. It was a call back to his childhood, when it was the best way to use day old bread from the local bakery down the street and something his father would make every Sunday morning no matter what.

A new man came into the kitchen, sniffing surreptitiously, short red hair and in skinny jeans and only a vest over his bare chest, a thin black leather choker around his neck. Bokuto couldn’t quite figure out these men and their odd dressing habits, but whatever, it wasn’t his house. They could do as they wanted. He smiled at the new comer. “Hungry?”

“Mhm-hmm,” the man hummed, smiling. “I’m Hanamaki. What’d you make? Are you Akaashi’s friend?”

Bokuto smiled, ignoring the second question because he didn’t really know. He slid two slices of french toast onto a plate and passed it to him. “Here. Do you guys have any plates or cups that aren’t chipped?”

Hanamaki giggled to himself at some memory the question evoked in his mind. “Nah, Matsukawa dropped the box with all of them when they moved in. It’s fine, though. This smells good.” He opened a drawer and plucked out a fork, then took a bite. “Mhm, this is good. Jeez, I wish you’d stay forever.”

Bokuto smiled, pleased. “I’m glad you like it. Where are the other two?”

“Getting ready.” Hanamaki stuffed more of the food into his mouth and plopped himself into a chair at the kitchen table. “They should be down soon if you want to wait for Keiji. You guys a thing?”

Bokuto shook his head. “No, he just brought me home so I didn’t die on the street.”

“Oh… well, you should start boning so that I get free food.”

Bokuto laughed, surprised, dropping more toast into the pan and silently agreeing. He could live with that arrangement. Akaashi was _very_ pretty.

When Akaashi and Matsukawa came to the kitchen, Bokuto gave them food as well, before settling down to eat his own. Hanamaki had already eaten three more pieces and Matsukawa looked like he could devour at least ten, but Akaashi pushed aside the second slice on his plate and took small bites of just the one.

“Do you not like it?” Bokuto asked, concerned.

“He eats like a bird,” Matsukawa said with considerable derision. “He thinks it helps him get more jobs than either of us.”

Akaashi shook his head, frowning at him. “That’s not the reason.”

Bokuto was confused. “Jobs at the bar?”

Hanamaki laughed, waving a hand. “No, man, we’re all models.”

Suddenly everything clicked into place. Of course. That explained why Bokuto felt like a caveman amongst beautifully deadly sirens. “Ohhhh...” He breathed, peering off into his imagination.

“I’m an underwear model,” Matsukawa said smugly.

Hanamaki rolled his eyes. “Yeah, like he hadn’t noticed with you prancing around half naked.”

“You love it.”

“I do.” Hanamaki grinned, reaching over and stealing a bite of toast from Matsukawa’s plate.

“Thank you for letting me sleep here,” Bokuto said to Akaashi as he stood from the table. “Look, I still feel really bad for messing up your bathroom. Maybe I can repay you guys with dinner sometime? My treat.”

Hanamaki perked up, beaming a wide, broad smile. “Oh, yes. Next time you come we’ll give you the full tour.”

Akaashi said through a small mouthful of toast, “No, we won’t.”

Hanamaki giggled, leaning back in his chair. “Sure we will.”

Bokuto smiled, glancing at Akaashi and said quickly, “I look forward to it. I’ve got to get going now, though.”

Akaashi stood, half glaring at Hanamaki as he moved around the table. “I’ll walk you out.”

Bokuto grabbed his discarded jacket from the floor on his way out then stood on the steps and turned back. “Do you always work the night shift at the bar?”

“Most nights. It helps to have a steady income when jobs don’t come as often.”

Bokuto paused, shifting from foot to foot, a bit nervous in the light of day. He liked the way the sunlight looked on Akaashi’s skin, was mesmerized by the veins that were just barely visible through the paper thin skin at his wrists and the base of his throat. “So you’re a model? For real?”

Akaashi laughed, the smile reaching the corners of his eyes for the first time. “Yes. I work mostly on photo shoots and not runways, though.”

“Ah… that makes sense.”

Akaashi leaned on the door frame, looking up at him, the sapphires in his ears making his eyes seem a brighter blue. “What?”

Bokuto wanted to reach out and touch his cheek, or curl his fingers through his hair. “Why you’re so pretty.”

Akaashi flushed a soft pink high in his cheeks and couldn’t meet Bokuto’s eye. Bokuto couldn’t help himself, and leaned forward to kiss his cheek before he bounced down the front steps.

“Hey,” Akaashi called after him, his voice a touch too high. “No more fights, okay? That bruise looks bad.”

Bokuto smiled at him. “Will do. Do you work tonight?” Akaashi nodded and Bokuto told him, “Good. I’ll come by and see you.”

“I look forward to it.” Akaashi smiled.

“Go eat your breakfast.” Bokuto pulled the cigarettes from his pocket and stuck one between his lips.

“Sure,” Akaashi said, then stepped back and closed the door softly.

 

* * *

 

 

He went home to his tiny apartment in Brooklyn to change into clean clothes and mix a double does of aspirin and the _morning after a binge_ shake he made for himself after disastrous nights at the bar.

As he left, he stopped at his mailbox to get his coupons, but…

“What?” He said flatly to his mailbox, glaring at the empty box like it betrayed him. “Where are my coupons?” He kicked around some detritus on the floor, checking to make sure they hadn’t fallen out somehow.

His coupons were gone. The whole paper, actually. He pouted at the loss, he loved the Kool-Aid and Lays Chips coupons that were always in there. Sometimes that was the only thing he ate for dinner. Damn. He didn’t have time to look any more, and he slung his bag over his shoulder as he left the apartment building, mourning the loss of his coupon book.

When he stepped through the back door of _je sais pas,_ Inuoka and Fukunaga stopped what they were doing and gave him odd, wary looks. Yamamoto shifted his stance, as if preparing to throw Bokuto out the door if someone asked it of him. Kai simply folded his arms and glared. Everyone had come in early, it seemed. Bokuto’s chest tightened at the thought that he’d have to prostrate himself to Kuroo in front of everyone instead of in private, like he’d hoped.

Bokuto sighed and just waved a hand at them. “I know, I know.” He sighed and went back to the small locker room. After dumping his bag, changing into his cooks clothes, and rubbing burn ointment into his hand for good measure, he came out, looking for Kuroo, his heart thudding and his mouth dry with nerves.

He found Kuroo leaning on one of the counters, listening to Kai as he spoke in rapid fire French, pointing out something on the menu. Kai paused when he saw Bokuto then stepped aside, moving half between the two of them with the protective look of a brother.

Kuroo straightened, giving Bokuto a cold stare. The bruise on his cheek was dark with blood and Bokuto felt hot shame sear his insides. “I’m sorry,” he said slowly, and glanced at Kai and the others who were peering over the counters at them. “To all of you. I feel shitty about walkin’ out… I shouldn’t have.” His face burned with shame and he looked down at his feet, clenching his fists at his sides. Maybe he didn’t belong here after all. Maybe he was too crass for the likes of this kitchen and these professionals.

Everything was silent for a long, broad moment, then Kuroo came around the counter to stand toe to toe with Bokuto and looked down his nose at him. He said in a low voice, “If you ever disrespect me like that again, we’re done. You’re through. Out of my kitchen. Understand?”

Bokuto swallowed, pushing down the prickly sense of indignation at being chastised in front of everyone like this. “Yes, Chef,” he said stiffly.

Kuroo glared at him for a moment, then stepped back, the tension falling from the room like a bowling ball off a cliff. _“Ça fait rien,_ don’t worry about it. I probably shouldn’t have yelled at you.” He waved a hand, dismissing the fight with a sigh. “It’s over with. You came back. That’s all I care about.”

“Thanks…” Bokuto mumbled as the others dispersed. “So what—”

“Oh, I’m not through,” Kuroo interrupted him, pointing a chastising finger at him. “I said don’t worry about it, I didn’t say you weren’t going to get punished.” He moved to one of the prep stations and pointed to the whiteboard on one wall. “Those are your chores for the day, _on top of_ your normal prep and service. I expect it all to be done before you leave.”

Bokuto looked over and groaned inwardly— _10#’s mirepoix, scrub each fridge and the walk-ins, inventory dry storage, clean out dish drain, do all dishes after service._ He inhaled slowly, but kept his face carefully blank because Kuroo was watching him, waiting for him to complain. Instead he said, “All right. I’ll have it done.”

Kuroo nodded. “Good thing you came in early, then. Get to work.”

 

* * *

 

Kuroo was pleased with the work Bokuto did, and how hard he worked in service that evening. He didn’t bring up the fight again even though his face ached something fierce. He’d left Bokuto cleaning the dishes, told him to lock up and even though he knew Bokuto was exhausted, he had only answered with a, “Will do, Chef,” before diving back into the dirty pile.

Kuroo stepped out of the elevator of his apartment building and dug his keys from his bag to unlock his door. When he opened the door he paused, staring at the disaster that hadn’t been there when he’d left this morning.

His refrigerator door was wide open, half of the food had been strewn all over the kitchen floor. The marble island had been cleared of all objects, and glass had shattered all over the floor as if someone had knocked each and every thing off the edge.

“What the fuck?” he whispered, glancing around. The wine cooler wasn’t open even though many of the bottles were worth several hundred dollars. The flat screen was still in its proper place in the living room, his laptop was on the coffee table. What sort of robbers destroyed only the contents of a refrigerator?

He stepped through the minefield of glass and ruined food and picked up the halibut filets that had practically melted into the tile. “Goddammit,” he muttered, dragging the trash can over and beginning to dump food into it that he couldn’t salvage. The fridge wasn’t even giving off cold air, so practically everything was ruined. He let out a string of French and English curses, long and in compound word form, as he stomped around his kitchen cleaning.

When it was all in the garbage and the floor wasn’t as sticky as it had been he went to bed, flopping into it and yanking the sheets up as his stomach growled loudly, blaming him for its emptiness. “Shut up,” he told it. “Not my fault.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys I'm a big ol' nerd and I started playing SIMS for the first time in my life... so I made the Models' Brownstone. https://imgur.com/a/cNWXM7U  
> In JaT it's a bit more rundown than in those pics, and the furniture in the bedrooms is different colors/patterns.... but a Starry Night bedspread is one of my dream bedspreads so of course I gave it to Makki.


	7. flambé

After Bokuto’s exhausting day of punishments the dinner service was almost an easy thing. He had floated through service, his garnishes and sides coming out perfect, everything fitting together like a puzzle.

He’d even managed to finish all the dishes and clean the drain (a dirty, smelly business especially since there was lobster on the menu) in record time. He changed into his street clothes, his favorite Queen t-shirt and tattered jeans, and began the jog to the bar.

He’d been an idiot to not even ask for Akaashi’s phone number, and he was kicking himself over it all day even as he diced onions and tallied each crate in the walk in dry storage. If Akaashi wasn’t there… he’d have no way of apologizing to him other than just showing up at his door at two in the morning. Not appropriate, he thought. His hands tingled from the hot water of the dish room, and he picked at a piece of dry peeling skin off the knuckle of his middle finger in an effort to not smoke. He’d promised Kuroo he’d try to quit, after all, even if it was physically painful. He scowled at the dry skin, upset that the tiny cleaver inked on the side of his finger and the blurry lines that made it up would have to be redone sometime. It would be painful, but he’d probably do it anyway.

When he got to the bar he pushed his way inside, waving off old cook buddies who would strike up long conversations. He scanned the bar and saw only Alec behind it, and his heart sank. “Hey,” he said as he came closer, “is Akaashi here?”

Alec looked up and pointed to the side of the bar wordlessly, then turned back to his customers. Bokuto turned his head and saw Akaashi perched on one of the stools at the very end, sipping from a small glass of what looked like water or gin or vodka, smiling back at him. Bokuto grinned and moved around to stand next to him and since there was no place to sit he leaned close, their bodies almost touching. Bokuto could smell something sweet on him, like fresh oranges, and he wanted to bury his face in his hair—see if it was as soft as it looked. “Hey, I’m glad I made it. Did you wait long?”

Akaashi looked up at him, not leaning away. “Not very. Busy day at work?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.” Bokuto smiled. “Have you eaten? Are you hungry? Do you want to go out? I’m starving.”

Akaashi blinked, laughed softly, and looked away. He drummed his fingers on the rim of his glass. “No. No. But… sure.” He finished the remainder of his drink then slid off the stool, reaching out a hand to grab Bokuto’s arm as he stumbled.

“You alright?” Bokuto turned his hand to hold Akaashi’s arm, felt his fragile bone underneath his fingers and again thought that he should eat more. Or work out and build some muscle.

“Just a bit lightheaded. The liquor,” Akaashi said, pulled away, smiling. “Where do you want to go?”

Bokuto grinned back. “I know just the place.”

They left the bar together, Akaashi pulling on a soft knitted cardigan. As Bokuto adjusted his duffel bag on his shoulder he asked, “Why are you wearing a sweater? It’s like seventy-five degrees. I’m sweating through my shirt here.”

Akaashi chuckled. “I’ve always been cold natured, that’s all.”

“Maybe I could warm you up.” Bokuto winked and was rewarded with a flush of Akaashi cheeks. “But first, dinner.”

“It’s way past dinner time.”

“Breakfast, then.”

“It’s hours from breakfast time,” Akaashi pointed out, grinning.

Bokuto huffed then put an arm around him and pulled Akaashi against him as they walked. “I just can’t please you, can I? Oh well, I think you’ll enjoy our overnight meal, anyway.”

“Mhm,” Akaashi hummed, falling into step, and leaning against Bokuto’s side.

It was a ten minute walk. Bokuto asked about Akaashi’s day ( _Fine, I only worked tonight, and spent most of the day catching up on my shows,_ he’d giggled, a little bit drunk) and Bokuto had explained in better detail about the fight, his apology, and the day full of atonement. Akaashi said he was proud of him for apologizing. _How mature of you._

“Ah, here we are,” Bokuto said, and held the door for Akaashi to step inside the small restaurant. The scents of garlic, ginger, turmeric, and cilantro hung in the air. “You like Thai food?”

Akaashi shrugged. “It’s got a lot of flavor, I guess.”

“This place is amazing.” He waved at the girl behind the counter and she gestured to the room at large, so he sat at a booth in the corner, pushing himself in beside Akaashi and sitting close. “To keep you warm.” He plucked a menu from the side of the table and laid it out for them to share. “What do you want?”

Akaashi leaned over the menu, squinting at it. Their legs touched, bubbling heat at the contact. Bokuto watched him, the curve of his throat, the glinting of sapphires in his ears, the fall of his hair over his eyes. Then his eyes flicked to Bokuto’s, and Bokuto swallowed hard. “Something got your eye?” Akaashi asked with a tilt to his lips.

Bokuto touched his tongue to his lips, then chewed on the bottom one when Akaashi’s eyes narrowed with a broader smile. “Just you…” Bokuto said.

Akaashi winked at him. “How kind of you.”

A tall, dark haired girl came to their table. “Nice to see you again. What would you like tonight? Your usual?”

Bokuto nodded. “You’re a doll, thank you.”

“And for you, sir?” She smiled back.

Akaashi glanced at the menu. “Hot and sour soup? Without the cream, please.”

She nodded. “Good choice.”

Bokuto held up a hand, looking at Akaashi. “You sure that’s all? You can get anything you want.”

Akaashi laughed softly, shaking his head. “It’s a big bowl.”

Bokuto frowned, but Akaashi thanked the girl and she left. “You should eat more,” Bokuto told him.

Akaashi rolled his eyes. “I’m fine, Bokuto. Really. What’s your usual?”

“Beef and chicken pad thai,” Bokuto said, his mouth immediately watering at the thought. “So… I was meaning to ask. Do you do modeling for magazines?”

“Why?” He nudged Bokuto with his elbow. “You going to go search for my pictures?” Bokuto blinked stupidly at him, and Akaashi laughed again, laying his head and arms on the table. “I can give them to you if you’d rather not flip through a million advertisements.”

“Really?”

Akaashi smiled, pressing his cheek into his arm and looking adorably kissable. He must know, because the spark in his eye flashed with amusement. “I’ve got a portfolio… I’ll show you sometime, okay?”

Bokuto smiled and touched his side, brushing his knuckles up his ribs. “I’d like that.”

The waitress came back with their drinks, a large beer for Bokuto and a tall glass of ice water for Akaashi. Akaashi sat up and pulled a straw from a cup on the side and drank enough of the water that it made Bokuto have to piss.

“Shit, you thirsty?”

Akaashi choked, laughing, waving him away. “I had a lot of gin before you got to the bar.”

“Oh my God you’re a gin drinker?”

“I love gin.”

Bokuto was nodding his head, a smile spreading on his face. “Fuck yeah.”

Their food came, and Bokuto devoured his meal, one of his favorites, soft noodles with a spicy peanut sauce and grilled steak strips and chicken breast. He watched Akaashi pick through his soup, sipping spoon fulls and munching on shrimp. Bokuto didn’t think he could ever just eat a soup—that wasn’t a meal, that was a starter.

“So, that tour your roommate offered me…” Bokuto began slowly.

Akaashi cut him off flippantly. “Makki doesn’t want to give you a tour, he just wants an excuse to have you over again so you can cook for us.”

“Oh… so you don’t want me to come over again?”

Akaashi’s face softened, and he touched Bokuto’s wrist. “You’re welcome any time.”

“Tomorrow, then?”

Akaashi blinked, taken aback. “So soon?”

“Unless you’ll just let me stay over?”

His face flushed, and he looked away, pulling in on himself so that Bokuto felt bad.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to over step. How about I bring something for dinner tomorrow?”

Akaashi dug through his soup for a moment, quiet, and Bokuto left him alone, feeling the food in his stomach turn sour at the thought that he’d fucked up and upset Akaashi.

“Sure,” Akaashi finally said. “That’d be fine.”

“What’s your favorite food?” Bokuto was determined to make it a delicious, memorable dish.

“I don’t have one.”

Bokuto laughed. “What? Liar, everyone has a favorite food.”

“Not me,” Akaashi told him, swirling his spoon around in the mostly full bowl.

“Okay then, what do you _like?”_

“Hm… salads. Soups.”

“Those are appetizers.”

Akaashi sighed, leaning on his hand. “I don’t know. Fruits and vegetables. Shrimp is nice.”

Bokuto nodded along, already thinking through his mental reservoir of recipes for something appropriate. “I can work with that. I’ll be over, say, five?”

Akaashi finally turned to look at him, his nervous smile back and looking worried. “All right, I’m sure it will be delicious.”

Bokuto’s phone buzzed and he pulled it from his pocket. A text from Kuroo? How strange, so late at night. When he read it, and the replies afterwards, he snickered.

“What?” Akaashi asked.

Bokuto showed him his phone. “Get this…”

 

* * *

 

Across the city in the Upper East Side, Kuroo was once again cleaning up his kitchen. He had come home to find it destroyed, again. He couldn’t even figure out what was broken, there was nothing left!

He stomped furiously around the kitchen, hurling broken bottles and globs of food into the trash can, again. “What the fuck? _C’est un fantôme ou quoi? Putain!”_ He kicked the trash bin, hard, a habit of fury. He looked up and saw that his balcony door was open. Maybe the vandal was out there and he could push them off the seventh floor balcony.

When he got outside, however, he found only a cat. A lovely long haired Siamese sat eating yet more of his fresh fish that it had dragged out from his fridge. The cat looked up at him with bright blue eyes and let out a loud _mrow_ in greeting.

 _“Ah mon Dieu,”_ he whispered, baffled, unsure of how a cat managed to get into his apartment. “Where did you come from?”

The cat meowed at him again and he stooped in front of it. “You’re the thief? How the fuck did you get up here?” He reached out and the cat purred as he pet it’s head. It—she? he assumed it was a she—was very soft. “Here, come on,” he told her, then scooped her up in one arm and took the fish with the other. The cat made a half meow, half growling sound as Kuroo dropped her in the kitchen and dumped the fish in the bin.

“Look,” he told her, “I don’t know how much fish you’ve eaten, but they’re toxic to cats in high doses. I don’t want you to get sick. I’ll make you some eggs, okay?”

And so he made scrambled eggs for his new cat. He sat in the floor with a bottle of wine, watching her eat. He snapped a picture and sent it to the group text that included Kai, Yaku, Suga, and Bokuto with the caption: _I found the fridge thief._

Kai immediately responded, _Don’t you have one of those samsung smart fridges?_

_Yup._

_Don’t the doors weigh like fifteen pounds?_

_More or less._

Yaku cut in, _howwww?_

_I don’t know. i just came home to a cat on my balcony eating my food._

_so you kept it?_

_her, yaku, she’s a pretty lady._

Kai said, _comment elle est arrivée là?_

_par magie, je pense_

Bokuto sent back in all caps, _NO FRENCH IN THE CHAT._

And Suga, instead of anything helpful, sent a picture of his boyfriend Daichi’s German Shepherd Dog with a hat on and said, _Mine is cuter._

 

* * *

 

In the days since the ‘unfortunate fire mishap’ with Lev and Yaku, Kuroo had kept the butane torches locked up in the dry storage cage, where they also kept expensive ingredients like saffron, truffles, whole Madagascar vanilla beans, and the single bottle of Kuroo’s most expensive traditional balsamic vinegar that had cost him over three hundred dollars and had taken more than twenty five years to produce.

So everyone was quite baffled when one of the torches wound up missing. Kuroo came in that morning, Yaku right behind him, and as the others began coming in for the prep shift Yaku went to the cage to get vanilla beans for a dessert he was planning. Kuroo had made a copy of the key for him and Kai so there would always be someone close to open it when anyone needed in.

When Yaku came out of the pantry he found Kuroo and he looked worried. “Do you have the other torch?”

“No?” Kuroo looked around, as if he would find it in someone else’s hands. “Why? Is it not there?”

“I wouldn’t have mentioned it if it was.” Yaku sneered, then he too gazed around the room. His face lit up, then darkened as a thought occurred to him. “Lev!” he shouted, so loudly that Kuroo jumped and thought he might have gone half deaf in his left ear.

The tall man poked his head out of the dish room where he was scrubbing a burned pan of sugar. “Yeah?”

“Do you have a torch?”

Lev blinked, then laughed uncomfortably. “No, of course not.”

Yaku stalked over to him, and with each step Lev seemed to shrink until Yaku was directly in front of him. Lev even leaned down so their faces were closer, as if Yaku was whispering instead of using his angry, loud mom voice. “Do you have it somewhere?”

“No,” Lev said again, quickly, shaking his head. “I swear! I wouldn’t lie to you, Mori.”

Kuroo raised his eyebrows at the nickname, for Yaku’s first name was Morisuke…but he’d never heard anyone call him Mori. _Oddly intimate._ Yaku squinted at Lev, then said something in a low voice that, from the other side of the kitchen, Kuroo didn’t catch, but it made color flush across Lev’s ears and cheeks and he nodded at him.

“If you say so… but it wasn’t me,” Lev told Yaku, who then turned and came back to Kuroo and folded his arms while tapping his finger on the glass jar of vanilla beans he’d set on the counter.

“Where could it be?” he asked, but to the room and not specifically to Kuroo.

Kuroo looked him over, squinting, searching for something that he might have missed earlier. “When’d you get a nickname?”

“I didn’t. Only he calls me that. And only because I can’t get him to stop.”

Kuroo raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.”

“Shut up, Kuroo.” He raised his voice to call to the room at large, “Guys! Be on the lookout for one of the butane torches.”

From his place at the stove Bokuto looked back, face aghast. “It’s missing?”

“Misplaced,” Yaku assured him. “It’s gotta be here. Just look around as you go about your work today.”

“What’s Lev’s tally up to so far?” Kuroo asked. The tally board had been moved to the small hallway between the main kitchen and the pastry shop, and a mason jar had even been bolted to the wall for people to put the money pool in. It was reset every Tuesday morning after their day off, to start fresh, as it were.

“Since it’s Sunday, I think it’s up to twenty five? It’s only the morning, though, give him time.”

Kuroo laughed and Yaku turned to go, taking his vanilla beans with him. Kuroo smirked and said, “You going to make your famous vanilla ice cream for service tonight, _Mori_?”

Yaku only flipped him off as he left the kitchen, not even bothering to look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French Translation -
> 
> C’est un fantôme ou quoi? Putain! - is it a ghost or what? fuck!  
> comment elle est arrivée la? - how'd she get inside?  
> par magie, je pense - by magic, i think


	8. quatre-epices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess I should say that for this chapter there are mild warnings for mentions of eating disorders.

Kuroo awoke to a paw on his face. He opened his eye and reached up to tuck the cat against his chest. “It’s not even light out, why are you waking me up?”

The cat sat on his chest, purring gently, claws kneading in and out of his flesh. He looked over at the clock and groaned, “I’ve only been asleep for four hours.”

The cat laid her chin on his chest, watching him with large sky blue eyes. He groaned and stroked her with his fingers as he hummed softly. “I’ve got to get something to feed you,” he told her. Sitting up, he carried her to the kitchen and opened the balcony door for her and set her down while he went to change. He debated making coffee, but the french press would take too long, and he really had to go now if he wanted to get to the market on time.

“I’ll be back,” he promised, crouching on the balcony and petting her, “Promise. You be good and don’t break anything, okay?” She purred against his hand, rubbing her cheek on his knuckle. _“Comment tu t’appelles?_ eh? I think I’ll call you Madame. _Tu aimes?”_ She meowed and he smiled, pleased with himself.

“Alright, stay, and don’t open the fridge again.”

On his way to the market he researched the best kinds of foods to feed a cat. Homemade foods, specifically, because he’d be damned if he bought canned cat food or kibble. He knew that fish wasn’t the best thing to feed cats, even though popular culture told them so. Cats ate fowl and rabbits and other small game in their natural habitat, so that’s what he would feed Madame. There was an option to feed raw, but Kuroo was a chef and he preferred most of his food cooked, so he thought his cat would too.

Cats also needed vitamins and nutrients that were hard to get in a natural diet, so he’d have to go by an organic store to buy those. A bit of carbs like rice or corn for energy, fiber from sweet potatoes, and a small amount of healthy fats, some eggs for good measure. He thought this cat food might taste pretty good, all in all. He also needed toys and litter too, if he was going to keep her.

At the market he spoke to the people who ran the game stalls, found whole rabbits and chickens and had them packaged on ice for him. He found bags of home grown corn and farm fresh eggs by the carton. It was expensive, but not more than he’d expected.

However, he found that the vitamins he needed to buy _were_ more expensive than he’d thought. He hoped Madame appreciated all he was doing for her. He found toys at the pet store, tiny balls with jingling bells, feathers on the ends of sticks, and a tiny remote controlled mouse. The litter box ended up being a nice carrying case for all of it.

At home, he found Madame sunning herself on the balcony, but when she heard him unpacking brown grocery bags she ran inside and coiled herself around his feet, meowing loudly. “I know, I know,” he told her. “You’re hungry. Give me a few minutes and I’ll cook up something nice for you. Better than raw fish.” He frowned, muttering, “Even if it was expensive…”

So instead of making lunch for himself, he made a gourmet meal for Madame, baked rabbit with peas and pureéd sweet potatoes, and all the vitamins. He even ate a bit of it himself as he cooked, the habit of tasting his food was so ingrained in him, and he thought it tasted pretty good.

When he poured it into the little pink bowl and set it down for her, she sniffed it, then looked up at him and blinked. He laughed. “What? You’ve never had good food before? Try it, you’ll like it. Go on.”

She licked a up some of the potatoes, then settled herself down and began gnawing at the rabbit leg.

“See?” he smiled. “I knew you’d like it.”

 

* * *

 

Bokuto spent Monday morning at the laundromat across the street from his apartment building washing his clothes. He commandeered two machines, one for his chef clothes and one for his street clothes, but sat on the bench outside watching the front door of his apartment building, silently begging the coupon thief to show his face and wishing he had binoculars.

His coupons had been taken every other day now, and he was starting to get really pissed off. Living in New York City and paying full price for anything was burning a hole in his wallet. He didn’t know who he was looking for, but he thought the person would have a distinctive _coupon thief_ face. Or maybe they would have the coupons in their hands. Either way, he was going to have several choice words for them.

Two hours later he dumped his clothes in a giant bag and trekked across the street back home, checked his mailbox and …

“Fuck!” he shouted in the lobby, causing a mother walking by with her son to glare at him. His coupons were gone again. The thief had taken the bait, but Bokuto had missed it. Goddammit. It must have happened when he was in the laundromat getting his clothes, even though he hadn’t even bothered folding them for the very reason that it would take too long. He stomped up the stairs, punishing each of them with his anger, and slammed the door to his apartment, ludicrously angry.

His apartment was small, barely enough room for the mattress that was spread out on the floor and the cardboard box that held his small television and DVD player. The kitchen was hardly one at all, only a microwave, mini fridge, and toaster oven with a too small sink and a single cabinet. He didn’t even have his own bathroom, but shared one with the entire fifth floor of the building. He assumed the apartments were a remodeled prep school or dorm room or something, but it was only three hundred dollars a month and he was only here to sleep and keep a handful of clothes, so he thought it was a good enough deal. He’d never cared where he lived and bounced from place to place, each one getting smaller and shittier than the last until he’d wound up here five months ago.

It was almost forty five minutes from _je sais pas_ but it was within walking distance of a twenty four hour gym so the payoff was worth it to him. He dumped his clothes on the bed, only taking out the white culinary coat and checked pants and laying them flat so they wouldn’t wrinkle because last time he’d come into the kitchen with wrinkled clothes Kuroo had given him such a disapproving stare that Bokuto felt like he was being chastised by his mother all over again.

He folded some clean clothes into his duffel and left, stopping at the mailbox again to peer inside as if the coupons would reappear but no, they were gone, dammit. So he took out his anger again on the ground, jogging to the gym.

Once there he shoved his clothes in a locker and, having already warmed up from the run, moved right to the punching bag to work out his stress on something that wouldn’t hit him back. With each crack of his fists on the bag he chanted in his head: _fucking. coupon. thief. fucking. coupon. thief._

By the end of it he was a bit less angry, his arms and knuckles burning with the sweet fire of exertion. He was sitting catching his breath when he noticed a small red-headed boy struggling with the bench press. _Shit, he’s gonna kill himself,_ he thought as he jumped up and swiftly moved over to stand behind the boy, grabbing the bar with one hand and holding it steady so the kid didn’t drop it on his chest.

“Yo, kid,” he said, making the boy open his eyes to look at him. “Don’t do this by yourself, you’re gonna get hurt.”

The boy blinked, then allowed Bokuto to help him put the barbell back safely then sat up, rubbing his arm and frowning. “Sorry… I didn’t know it’d be so heavy.”

Bokuto folded his arms, worried because the kid was tiny and obviously shouldn’t be here on his own. Especially if he was stupid enough to do something that should have required a spotter until he knew what he was doing. “Where are your parents?”

The boy looked up at him, confused. “Uh… Jersey?”

Now Bokuto was confused and he scoffed. “How’d you get here? You’re a bit far from home.”

The boy squinted at him. “I live, like, three block down.”

Bokuto opened his mouth, closed it again, then said, “Wait, how old are you?”

Sighing, like this was a question he’d answered a hundred times a day, he muttered, “Twenty four…”

“No shit?”

A laugh, and a nod. “Yeah. I’m Hinata Shouyou.”

Bokuto smiled and extended a hand. “Call me Bokuto. You’re new here?”

“Mhm-hmm.” Hinata nodded, his flaming red hair flopping. “I just moved here last month and thought I’d start coming here…” He looked around, sighing again and looking discouraged. “But I don’t know how to use any of this stuff.”

Bokuto shrugged. “Well I’m here every Monday. I could help you out.”

Hinata beamed, overjoyed. “Really?”

“Sure thing.” Bokuto smiled back. “Come around the same time next week, yeah?”

“Thank you!”

Bokuto stepped over, put his arm around him, and patted his undersized arm. “Don’t worry lil’ dude, we’ll get you in shape in no time.”

 

* * *

 

As Bokuto finished at the gym and said good-bye to Hinata he texted Akaashi to see if he could still come by and make dinner for him and his roommates. He was leaving the grocery store and already in a cab by the time Akaashi replied that it was okay to head over. Thank God Akaashi had texted at all; it would have been weird to show up without notice.

At the model’s house Hanamaki let him in, looking at the bags in his hands and grinning. “What are you making?”

“Shrimp tacos with a jalapeño mango salsa,” Bokuto told him.

“Oh shit, that sounds great.”

“I hope it will be.” Bokuto laughed.

Hanamaki took him to the kitchen then picked up a broom and knocked on the ceiling. “Keiji! Your boyfriend’s here!”

Bokuto was pulling groceries from the bags and setting them on the counter, and he nearly dropped the bag of shrimp when Hanamaki said that, turning sharply to look at him. “His what?”

Hanamaki grinned and winked, making a crude gesture with his index and middle fingers just as Akaashi came in. “Oh my God, you pervert, stop that!” Akaashi scolded him, then said, “Hello, Bokuto. How are you?”

Bokuto snickered at Hanamaki’s gesture. “Good, good. I hope you’re hungry. I brought something I think you’ll really like. And I noticed you like to eat healthy foods, so I checked and this is supposed to be really good for you. All sorts of nutrients and shit.”

“Ah…” Akaashi glanced at the groceries: mangoes, cabbage, shrimp, lemon, red onion, and jalapeño peppers. “Alright, whatever you make will taste good, I’m sure.” He rubbed his arm, nervously it seemed, and Bokuto saw that, again, he was wearing a finely knitted sweater. Bokuto noted that it wasn’t cold in the house, but Akaashi always wore long sleeves. The only time he’d seen his arms was when he worked at the bar. He wondered if Akaashi had a complex about them or was legitimately just always cold. That was an odd concept for Bokuto, who sweated even in winter, and worked with fire and the moist heat of the kitchen.

Hanamaki went over to stand next to Akaashi and leaned his elbow on Akaashi’s shoulder. “Want the tour first?” He asked Bokuto, his smile wide and mischievous, while Akaashi made a face at the suggestion.

“Actually I’ve got to do some prep,” Bokuto said, “but the shrimp have to marinate for twenty minutes. Maybe then?”

Hanamaki laughed. “You’ve got twenty minutes to hide your leather and whips then, Keiji.” He winked and laughed maniacally as Akaashi flushed and shoved him away.

“Shut up.” He rolled his eyes. “Jesus, is sex all you think about?”

“If you were dating Mattsun you’d think about it all the time, too. You should see his—”

Akaashi held up his hands. “Christ. stop it.” His cheeks were a lovely soft shade of pink.

Bokuto didn’t have to imagine what Hanamaki was going to say, and in fact the image of Matsukawa mostly naked in front of him flashed through his mind; he actually had to turn away from the pair of models and busy himself with mixing a marinade for a few minutes, then peeling shrimp afterwards to hide the thoughts on his face. They made small talk while he worked, dicing cabbage, mango, and red onion, then putting everything in large ziplock bags and storing them in the fridge.

He was horrified to see that they still had almond milk. Weirdos. He hated almond milk. It wasn’t real milk. He kept his opinions to himself, though, and when he was through cleaning Hanamaki took him through the house, showing him the leaf strewn tiny patio, the large yellow-walled sunlit reading room on the second floor, and the messy storage rooms on the third floor that housed their washing machines and more clothes than Bokuto could ever wear. Akaashi kept his second floor bedroom door closed tight, standing guard like a sentry, glaring at Hanamaki when he tried to go inside.

“Fine, fine.” Hanamaki laughed. “Spoil sport. You make this not fun.” Akaashi only snorted in derision, so Hanamaki pulled Bokuto to the small door to the right beside Akaashi’s bedroom and presented their only working small bathroom. There was another one on the third floor but it had had problems the entire time the models had lived there and so they treated it as perpetually off-limits so they didn’t have to pay any plumbing deductibles for repairs. “And you remember this room, right?” The counter was littered with products, too many for Bokuto to even comprehend what they all were other than toothbrushes, toothpaste, and a straight razor. Who the fuck used straight razors anymore? Models, apparently.

Bokuto felt his face redden. “God. I’m so sorry, again. Really.”

“No problem, you’ve just gotta make up for shoving all our shit off the counter. You broke a very expensive bottle of moisturizer.”

Bokuto groaned and pressed a hand to his face to hide his shame. “I can pay for it…”

“Nah, that’s fine. Just try not to black out again? You’re very heavy and we almost couldn’t get you down the stairs. You almost slept in the hallway.” He laughed, then stepped out of the tiny bathroom. “One last room,” he declared, going back upstairs, then nudging open a door with his foot and saying, “You’re not naked, right, Issei?”

From the bedroom Matsukawa said, “Almost, but no.”

So Hanamaki waved them in. He plopped on the bed beside Matsukawa and rested his chin on his shoulder. “What are you playing?” Their bedroom was stuffed full of furniture: a large bed against the side wall, walk in closet, a massive bookshelf, two large dressers, a vanity, and a bean bag near the windows that overlooked the front street.

Matsukawa was sitting cross legged on the bed, hunched over a small gaming device. “Nintendogs,” Matsukawa said, poking the screen with a stylus. “Damn dog won’t lay down. Down!” he said loudly to the game. “Fucking dumb dog.”

Hanamaki giggled and Akaashi shook his head, dropping into the bean bag and pulling his knees up. “He likes games.”

“Our bartender likes games,” Bokuto said, unsure if he should sit, because the only place left was at the foot of the bed. So he looked around at the framed movie posters on the wall, pretending that he didn’t feel awkward in the bedroom with three lovely lovely men, one of them once again only in his underwear.

In frustration, Matsukawa flicked the game closed and flipped it to the end of the bed. He uncurled himself and went to the bookshelf beside the door. “Want to see baby Keiji?”

Akaashi groaned and gave him a dirty look. “Why do you have my pictures?”

“You’re my friend, I like to follow your career.”

“You didn’t even know me back then.”

Matsukawa smirked, then handed Bokuto a large black binder. “Enjoy.”

Akaashi scowled, holding his knees, and Bokuto chuckled nervously, then went to sit on the floor beside him, leaning on the bean bag and opening the cover. Akaashi reached over and flipped the considerable number of laminated pages to the very last one. “Start at the back, they’re newer,” he explained.

Bokuto glanced at him and thought he looked rather nervous. He wondered if Akaashi thought he was somehow judging him, instead of simply admiring his beauty. Turning his attention back to the book, he was at once blown away at the quality of the photographs. Some were blown up large and covered an entire page, others only half, and a few only a quarter of the page, with four or five plastered on it.

The first few pages were a spread of Akaashi with a myriad of flowers. He wore only long black pants but most of the best pictures were headshots: Akaashi looking directly at the camera with a crown of thorns tangled in his dark hair, bright red roses blooming around his throat; holding a yellow tulip to his lips; beside a large bush of roses, half his face hidden behind them; some were black and white, his body covered in pale white and gray flowers as he laid out on a patch of grass, his arms above his head and his face thrown to the side.

“Wow.” Bokuto breathed. “Damn, they’re amazing.”

Matsukawa and Hanamaki were close, leaning over to see the book as well. Akaashi shrugged and said half heartedly, “I didn’t take the pictures.”

“No,” Bokuto acknowledged, “but you made them perfect. You’re absolutely gorgeous.” He looked over at him, noting how the bright blue of his eyes could never be captured perfectly by the camera and liking the real thing infinitely better.

Akaashi blushed and smiled with the smallest tilt of his rose pink lips. “Thank you…”

Most of the book was of clothing, and Bokuto liked them just as much. He saw strange clothes, a necklace of black arrows and militaristic shirts, boots that were thigh high, lace shirts that showed his chest and stomach, and stiletto heels that Akaashi looked extremely comfortable in that made his butt look quite nice.

Other clothes were more normal: cozy turtlenecks, sleek and stylish tanks, tight jeans, and a few elegant looking suits. He watched Akaashi age backwards as he flipped through the book, noted how only five years ago Akaashi had been flushed pink with health, his muscles taut and lithe with youth. He also noticed how Akaashi stopped explaining the photographs to him the further back he got and, after a time, Akaashi simply stood and said, “Bathroom,” as he left.

Hanamaki sighed dreamily, pointing to a picture that was almost at the beginning of the book. It was one of those _model_ poses, completely ridiculous in any other context. Akaashi leaned against a window pelted with rain, gazing out with a demure face, legs dangling, bare feet long and lovely. He wore nothing on his torso except several long strings of pearls, the longest of them so low as to graze his belly button.

“This is my favorite,” Hanamaki said, tapping it. “He’s so pretty.”

Matsukawa glanced it, but he was back to his dog game and said distractedly, “You’re pretty too, Taka. Don’t be jealous.”

“Mhm, but green looks good on me.”

Bokuto laughed then closed the book carefully. He wanted copies of many of the pictures to take home, but didn’t know if it would be appropriate to ask. "I’ve got to go finish cooking,” he told them, handing the book to Hanamaki.

“How long till it’s ready?” Matsukawa asked, not looking up from his game.

“Maybe ten minutes?”

“Cool, we’ll be down then. Check on Akaashi, would you?”

Bokuto stepped into the hallway and leaned over the banister, but didn’t hear any movement. “I think he’s still in the bathroom?”

Matsukawa and Hanamaki exchanged a glance not meant for him. Hanamaki said, “Alright, thanks. Yell when food’s done?”

“Sure thing.” Bokuto looked down the stairs, an odd sense of dread coiling its way into his belly. “Is he okay?” Bokuto asked over his shoulder.

Hanamaki said too quickly, “Yeah, leave him alone. He’ll be okay. He’s got stomach problems.”

“Oh…”

Matsukawa looked up, serious. “You can help by making good food, okay? It’s what he needs.”

Bokuto smiled. It was a weird request but if there was one thing he could do well, it was cook. “I can do that.”

So he did. He had brought a grill pan from home and grilled shrimp and tortillas over the hot cast iron so they all had lovely char marks. He put them together with care, three shrimp per taco and covered them with the slaw, then ate one for good measure just to make sure it tasted good. When he was through he stood at the foot of the stairs and yelled up that dinner was ready. He glanced at the window and thought it wouldn’t be past six, a good time for dinner.

Hanamaki came down first, patting Bokuto’s shoulder as he passed. “Mhm, it smells so good down here.”

“Where’s Akaashi?”

Hanamaki tugged on Bokuto’s arm, pulling him back to the kitchen. “He’s coming.” Hanamaki found the tray of tacos Bokuto had made and plucked several from it to put on a plate for himself. Bokuto liked seeing people enjoying his food, and especially liked the way Hanamaki dropped himself into a chair and over dramatically moaned after his first bite, _“Oh my God._ Delicious!”

“Thanks.” Bokuto couldn’t help but smile. He liked when his food was enjoyed and it had been a long time since he’d seen it up close.

Akaashi and Matsukawa came into the kitchen, Matsukawa giving Akaashi a pointed look that Bokuto couldn’t figure out, then going to take one of Hanamaki’s tacos off his plate. “Looks good,” he said, taking a huge bite. “Thanks.”

Akaashi hesitated in the doorway and Bokuto took it into his own hands to make a plate for him and Matsukawa, who had thankfully put on pants, dividing the rest of the tacos between the three of them and leaving two more for Hanamaki if he wanted them. They sat around the small kitchen table by a large window, Bokuto noticing he could easily shift his leg and lay it against Akaashi’s.

Matsukawa was easy to please and quickly devoured half his meal in a few minutes. Akaashi, though, picked up a fork from a side drawer. Bokuto stared at him, shocked. “Whoa, wait,” he said. “You can’t eat tacos with a fork.”

Akaashi shot an annoyed look at him. “I don’t like messy food.”

Bokuto snorted, laughing. “Dude, you’re ruining the integrity of tacos.” He looked at the other two, waving a hand. “Right?”

Matsukawa was leaning on his hand, helping himself to the leftover shrimp right from the bowl, but he shrugged. “As long as he eats it, I don’t care.”

Bokuto sighed. “Fine,” he mumbled, then raised one eyebrow at Akaashi. “You haven’t even tried it yet.”

Akaashi huffed. “I was trying to.” He cut pieces of the taco into small bites then, with Bokuto telling him how to get the best bite by stacking shrimp, a bit of the tortilla, and the slaw into a manageable bite. He stuck it in his mouth and Bokuto grinned at him, watching and waiting for his reaction. Akaashi blushed and ducked his head, covering his face with his hands while he chewed.

It made Bokuto laugh. “Sorry, sorry,” he said and ate one of his own while Akaashi kept his head bowed, embarrassed.

Matsukawa and Hanamaki chatted amiably, (“Want to go see a movie?” “No, they’re getting so expensive now.” “Aw but that new comedy came out last week.” “Last time we went to the movies you insisted we leave halfway through.” “Because you couldn’t keep your hands off me.”) and then Bokuto tuned them out and asked Akaashi, “Do you like it?”

Akaashi raised his head, covering his mouth with his fingers, still chewing. “Mhm-hmm,” he mumbled. “Lots of flavor.”

Bokuto smiled, picking up his own and finishing it, then picking through the slaw for the pieces of jalapeño pepper. “Good, I’m glad you like it.”

“Thank you, Bokuto…” Akaashi said, eating a piece of shrimp by itself in small bites. “Really.”

Matsukawa watched him, eyes narrowing, then he nudged Hanamaki and raised his eyebrows. Hanamaki didn’t so much as shrug back but his face made the tight lipped, wide eyed motion of one. Matsukawa pursed his lips and his eyes flicked towards something, and Hanamaki's mouth turned down in thought, then he gave the smallest shake of his head. They seemed to have an entire conversation before Akaashi snapped, “Stop that!”

Matsukawa turned to look at him. “Shut up and eat your dinner.”

Akaashi glared at him. “I did.”

Bokuto blinked in surprise. “You’ve only eaten one.” Hanamaki had four, Matsukawa at least six, plus a few handfuls of shrimp. “Aren’t you hungry?”

Akaashi shook his head just as Matsukawa said, “He needs to eat more, don’t you think Bokuto?”

Bokuto glanced between them, at the anger on Akaashi’s face that he tried to hide and the detached frankness of Matsukawa’s stare. “Uh…” Bokuto mumbled, feeling trapped. “I mean yeah, but if he doesn’t want to, I won’t make him. I know lots of people with weird eating habits.”

“Yeah, he’s got some weird habits.”

Akaashi inhaled sharply then ate more of the vegetables, leaning on his fist, looking thoroughly pissed off.

Bokuto and Hanamaki filled the awkward silence that followed with mindless small talk, _(Where did you live before NYC?—Jersey for Hanamaki, Philly for Bokuto, immediately before NYC, anyway—What’s your favorite food? Did you ever see Titanic?_ et cetera) then after the meal Bokuto cleaned the kitchen while Akaashi and Matsukawa argued loudly upstairs. He could hear the rise of their voices, but the actual words were muffled by walls.

“Do they not like each other?” Bokuto asked Hanamaki, who was helping to dry the dishes and put them away.

“Hm… it’s not that,” Hanamaki said after a moment of thought. “They’re actually closer than you’d think. Mattsun is very protective of Keiji. I think it’s why he worries about him so much.”

There was a loud thud from overhead and a shout of fury. Bokuto glanced at the ceiling nervously. “Why is he so worried?”

“Well… it’s not really my place to say. Akaashi has some…” He sighed, set the dish he was wiping down and frowned at it, picking at a chip in the edge. “Problems.”

Bokuto tried to smile but his face felt too tight. “Don’t we all?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

Akaashi came down, the sounds of his stomping down the stairs overly loud. His steps stopped at the entryway as he shoved his feet into his shoes. Hanamaki muttered, “Great, I’ll get it tonight…”

Bokuto ignored him, going quickly to Akaashi and touching his arm. Akaashi pulled away, then hesitated, and seemed to take a moment to compose himself and his face before looking up at him. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m going out.”

“Want me to—”

“No, that’s fine. I’m just going for a walk.”

Bokuto perked up, beaming. “I like walks!”

From the door to the kitchen Hanamaki asked, “What are you, a dog?”

Akaashi’s jaw worked and he couldn’t keep his gaze on Bokuto anymore, instead glaring at the door as if it had personally offended him. “Only if you want to…”

“Yeah, yeah!” Bokuto opened the door for him and they left the house, Akaashi sulking along for several minutes in an annoyed silence.

“Sorry,” he said finally, hands in his pockets. “I didn’t mean to ruin your nice dinner.”

“Did you enjoy it?” Bokuto asked, bouncing along beside him.

“…Yes, I did. Even if some people didn’t think so.”

Bokuto assumed that _some people_ was in fact _one person,_ with dark hair, eyebrows for days, and liked to sit around in his underwear. “If you liked it at all, that’s all that I care about,” he said honestly.

Akaashi stopped, turning to face him, his face open and sincere. “I really, really did. Thank you… for making it.”

Bokuto smiled, and shifted his feet so they were almost touching. “Can I do it again?”

Akaashi’s eyes widened minutely, his lips parting just enough that Bokuto wanted to kiss him. “Do what?”

“Make you like food… you don’t seem to like it very much.”

Akaashi bit his lip, glancing away, looking pained, so Bokuto reached up and touched his thumb to Akaashi’s lip, pulling it from his teeth. “Please don’t do that,” he told Akaashi. “Let me do it for you.” And he lowered his head to kiss him, finally, after wanting to do it from the moment he met him. Akaashi’s lips were soft and tasted of mint and honey, his breath was warm against Bokuto’s mouth when he gasped and tensed. Bokuto almost pulled away, an apology on his lips, when Akaashi raised himself on his toes and wrapped his arms around Bokuto’s neck to pull him back down.

After a time Akaashi pulled away, his fingers tangling through the back of Bokuto’s hair, lips brushing again, until Bokuto stepped away. They were in public after all.

“Do you work tomorrow?” he asked, hopeful.

Akaashi pressed his fingers to his lips, smiling to himself. “Yeah… I’ll wait for you after I get off if you want.”

Bokuto smiled, pulled his hand away and brought it to his lips to kiss his knuckles, even though Akaashi’s fingers tightened under his own. “I’d love that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French -  
> Comment tu t'appelles? - what's your name?  
> Tu aimes? - you like it?


	9. stale

A knock at the door pulled Kuroo from his thoughts. He looked down at Madame, who sat on his lap, and said, “Who could that be?” She only purred, so he stood and set her on the couch so he could answer the door.

On the other side he found a tall, thin blonde man in glasses reading the number plaque on his door. “Can I help you?”

The man looked at him, then his eyes wandered around the bit of the apartment that he could see. “Hello,” the man said coolly. “I was told that you’ve been seen with cat things.”

Kuroo blinked, laughing nervously. “I’m sorry?”

The man’s thin eyebrows raised. “My cat is missing. Have you seen her? Long-haired Siamese.”

Kuroo’s mouth fell open, then closed. “…You’re telling me that Madame is yours?”

“Madame?” He looked down, and his face lightened with recognition. “Ah, there she is.” He crouched down and the cat padded out to him, right into his waiting hands. He scooped her up and stood. “How did she get here?”

Kuroo blinked, absolutely appalled. Madame was leaving him? “Wait, wait,” he said quickly, reaching for her, but the man held her close to his chest and glared at Kuroo. “You can’t just take her from me.”

“She’s my cat.”

“But I love her!”

The man scowled, giving Kuroo such a scathing look that it sent a shiver down his spine. He didn’t back down, though, and pulled himself to his full height with his arms crossed. He was annoyed to see that his full height still wasn’t as tall as the stranger, but only barely.

“Did you steal her?” the man asked sharply.

“What? No.” Kuroo snapped, leaning on the door frame and giving his best _I didn’t steal your cat_ look. “She just showed up, dude! Oh, and, you owe me like three hundred dollars.”

The man scoffed. “For what? I’m not paying you for any equipment you bought on a whim.”

“No! Your cat ruined all the shit in my fridge—twice.”

The man blinked and a smile crept onto his face. “Ah… yes, she does that,” he chuckled. “How did she even get inside?”

“I don’t know, how does she open refrigerators?” Kuroo quipped back.

The man snorted, stepping back. “If she somehow gets in again, just bring her back. I live right next door.” And with that he left, turning his back on Kuroo and going down the hall to his apartment, Madame peeking over his shoulder the whole way.

 

* * *

 

The kitchen was full with everyone back at work after their day off. Even Suga was there, who usually only worked the night shift from early in the dark hours of the morning to sometime around lunch. He probably stayed for a few minutes to gloat because he’d won the Clumsy Lev pool last week and was taking home a nice chunk of cash.

He and Yaku spent an hour going over the dessert menu with Lev standing behind them and peppering them with questions. As Suga was leaving for the day Yaku asked, “Have you seen the other torch?” because they still had never found it.

Suga thought a moment then asked,“The one that was in the cage?”

“There were two.”

“Oh! Oh, yeah I had it. I was making a lemon crème brûlée.”

Yaku huffed. “Where the fuck is it?”

“The crème brûlée?”

“The torch!”

Suga smiled sheepishly. “In the pantry? Where it’s supposed to go.”

“No it’s not,” Yaku insisted. The two of them went into the pantry, searching, until Suga got on his hands and knees and reached under a shelf.

“Here it is! Must have fallen.” He held it up to Yaku. “Sorry.” Suga smiled, appealing to Yaku’s kind and forgiving nature that he told everyone he had but most had yet to see.

“Be careful next time, yeah?” Yaku snapped, putting it safely back in the cage and locking it.

Suga tried to laugh, to brush Yaku’s annoyance off because he knew it wasn’t directed at him, but at the fact that it had been there the whole time and he hadn’t seen it. “Absolutely. I’ll be careful. Did you think Lev had stolen it?”

“Something like that,” Yaku muttered.

“I hope you didn’t give him too hard a time.”

And Yaku… blushed. He rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I thought he was lying to me.”

“Ha!” Suga laughed, and nudged him. “Give him some sort of prize tonight then, hm?”

Yaku groaned, “Don’t tell Kuroo.”

“Of course not. How long?”

“Since he tried to apologize for setting me on fire… How’d you know?”

Suga leaned against the shelf, grinning ear to ear with amusement. “It’s not hard to tell when I see you guys in the pastry shop together. I might not be here often but when you think you’re alone…” He chuckled. “You get soft, Yaku.”

“I do not!” Yaku said huffily, then stomped out of the pantry. Suga smiled to himself, pleased that his observations had been correct. They were an _item_ and it tickled him to no end. He’d have to go home and tell Daichi.

 

* * *

 

During the daily meal Kuroo explained the specials for the week that focused on ripe summer tomatoes: lamb stuffed tomatoes with parsley and sage; arugula and tomato salad with Parmesan cheese; a special tomato sauce (Kuroo’s secret recipe); a baked cod with tomatoes, chorizo, and onions. He liked to find the freshest produce at the market and make something delicious and seasonal with them every week and kept up a constantly changing specials list.

Before everyone left the table, Daishou stood and waved his hand for silence. Kuroo deflated a bit, because he knew what he was going to say. Daishou had told him this morning and now was ready to tell the staff at large. Kenma looked anxious and annoyed, because Kuroo had pulled him aside to tell him this morning, too, and said he should help Kuroo look for a replacement.

“While it’s been a pleasure working with all of you,” Daishou was saying, “I’m pretty much done with my masters… and I’ll be going to work in Australia at the Reptile Research and Breeding facility. I’ll be here another month or so, but then I must take my leave of you.”

It wasn’t exactly common knowledge that Daishou wished to be a herpetologist—a studier of reptiles and amphibians— not because he didn’t talk about it, but because like many restaurants the front of house and back of house weren’t extremely close.

Kenma, trying to hide his annoyance with the announcement, said, “You need to help find and train your replacement.”

Daishou smiled. “Of course.” But he and Kenma had never really gotten along. Daishou stuck a truffle that Lev had made into his mouth, made a face, discreetly spit it out, and said to Kuroo, “I do know a wine guy that you could call.”

Kenma said flatly, “We have wine. We need a bartender since we have a bar.”

Kuroo saw how much effort Daishou put into not rolling his eyes. “I know, but I mean in general.”

In order to cut off whatever snippy response Kenma had Kuroo leaned forward and said, “Do you mean a vendor or a _sommelier?”_

“Well he’s not just a vendor. I knew him a few years ago and he did a lot of stuff. He worked with all the wines and trained the wait staff and took care of the front of the house, too.”

They needed a better floor manager… Kenma was adequate, he did what he was supposed to do, but he clearly didn’t like the position, and Kuroo knew that someone with a little more knowledge and passion would be better suited. “Do you know how to get in touch with him?”

“Yeah, I’ll get it to you before I leave.”

“That doesn’t solve our bartender problem. I can’t do it all by myself,” Kenma said sharply to Kuroo.

Bokuto, his mouth half full of the sample of stuffed tomatoes said, “Aw, Kozume, you’re telling us you’re not a people person?” Kenma glowered and half the table laughed. Bokuto reached around Fukunaga and slapped Kenma on the back. “I’m sure working with drunkards will fix that soon enough!”

Kuroo couldn’t tell exactly how much sarcasm was injected into that statement, but Kenma apparently took offense and stood from the table, snatching his plate and sulking out of the dining room. Kuroo sighed. “Thank you, that was very helpful.”

Bokuto shrugged, stabbing another piece of broccoli and eating it. “Dude, these are good,” he said to Kai.

But Kai wasn’t paying attention. He was frowning at his phone, scrolling slowly downwards. “Uh…” he glanced up at Kuroo, face pinched with worry, _“Regarde ça…”_

Kuroo reached for the phone, nervous for something he wasn’t aware of, until he saw the title of the article and his stomach flopped into his bowels. It was the critic review of _je sais pas._

In the madness of the past week he’d forgotten completely, and wished he could forget still. He glanced at Bokuto, then snapped his eyes away quickly because he remembered their fight and the night it had happened was the night the critic had come. Bokuto began to shrink in on himself, still ashamed of his actions, but Kuroo ignored him in favor of the article.

_The meal on this night not only came half an hour later than it should have, but it also didn’t live up to the name the restaurant has built around itself the few weeks it has been open._

It went on to say that the food, while flavorful, was disjointed and common. Almost like a stay at home chef trying to be better than he actually is. The flavor profiles were reminiscent of a culinary student.

The final line stabbed Kuroo straight in the soul: _Dining at ‘je sais pas’ is simply that. Not memorable at all, except for the location in the heart of Manhattan._

Kuroo read it through four times, everyone at the table staring at him, silent. Finally, he set the phone facedown on the table, stood, and left the room. He needed to go somewhere. Not here. For the first time, he wished his office had solid walls instead of glass. He needed to be alone. He wanted to go home. He wound up in the walk in cooler, leaned against the back wall underneath the air conditioner and sank to a crouch, holding his knees against his forehead. He wasn’t angry… nor sad. Those emotions he could handle… but now, he was empty inside—all his hard work seeming to have been for nothing. That was one feeling he didn’t know how to handle.

The critic was a popular one in the city, and their words were read as gospel. This could kill the restaurant. It probably would. How much debt would he accrue before he decided it was time to cut his losses and close the doors? He had just paid off his loans, too.

He tugged out his phone, found the article, and read it again and again. With each reading the words stung a bit less until they began to spark the deadwood. He found the critic’s email and began typing, his fingers stiff with pain and cold, until he had composed a long letter to the critic, explaining that they had lost several cooks that night, and, no, it wasn’t an excuse for quality control, but—

“Kuro,” Kenma said, sticking his head in the door. “Come out, you’ve been in here for twenty minutes.”

“Go away,” Kuroo told him.

Kenma scowled but backed out, closing the door.

Shivering, his body losing the heated fire of indignation, he finished his email, asking the critic to come back for a special tasting menu Kuroo had been planning, not for another review, but because Kuroo didn’t like the idea of someone not understanding his food and he believed that the critic was the type of person who was smart enough to comprehend good food.

He could barely stop himself from begging: _everyone has a bad day, you came on a bad night, please come back, I’m so sorry, let me fix this._

Instead, he read through the letter to check for typos and just as he signed his name Kai came in the cooler and grabbed his arm to haul him up. _“Allons-y, idiot, tu vas mourir de froid.”_

 _“Il fait pas froid…”_ Kuroo mumbled through chattering teeth. _“Sers-moi un café, s’il-te-plaît...”_

Kai snorted, dragging Kuroo through the kitchen to stand next to the hot grill and the relative warmth of the line. _“Repose-toi.”_ He made a _stay_ motion with his hand and glared at him.

Kuroo nodded as Kai walked away to the office and the kettle Kuroo kept there. Kuroo held his phone, glaring at the screen and seeing weakness in every word of the email. Before he could regret it or overthink it anymore he sent it with a final hard tap to the screen. Then he shoved it in his pocket and took a deep, shaking breath.

Bokuto was at his prep station, stirring a sauce as he watched Kuroo. “You okay, dude?”

Kuroo looked over at him, and for a moment, not even a full second, he hated him for walking out. What sort of coward left the line like that?

Then the moment passed and Kuroo sighed, the hate draining out of him and leaving him weak and cold. “I will be. Let’s have a bitchin’ service tonight, _d’accord?”_

Bokuto grinned, nodded with determination, and ducked to finish his prep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French Translations:  
> Regarde ça - Look at this  
> Allons-y, idiot, tu vas mourir de froid. - Let's go, idiot, you're going to die of cold.  
> Il fait pas froid - it's not that cold  
> Sers-moi un café, s'il-te-plaît - get me a coffee, please  
> repose-toi - stay here  
> d'accord - okay


	10. bain-marie

Bokuto watched all through service and clean up as Kuroo tried to pretend that he was alright. Pretend that the review hadn’t hurt some prideful place in his soul. It was, after all, his first professional review of his own personal menu and not a review of someplace he worked under a more experienced chef.

Bokuto took his time changing once Kuroo had dismissed them and waited for Kuroo to come change too, but he never did. He found Kuroo in the dish room, elbow deep in scalding water, scrubbing at a pan that Bokuto thought had already been cleaned. Upon looking around however, he saw that most of the dishes hadn’t been done yet.

“Did Joseph quit?” Bokuto asked, appalled at the pile of unwashed dishes.

“No,” Kuroo said, not looking back at him. “I told him to leave this to me tonight.”

Bokuto had worked under chefs who thought they were too good to wash dishes and would never even clean up their own hot plate after service was over. Kuroo wasn’t like that—he’d done every job in the kitchen in his career and didn’t mind doing any and all of them now, even if some considered it demeaning.

“Do you want help?”

“No.”

Bokuto picked up a dirty whisk, deciding that he would help anyway, but Kuroo jerked it from his fingers.

“I don’t need help,” Kuroo snapped, flinging the whisk into the water and going back to his pan. His hands were a pale pink from the heat of the water and sweat stood out on his forehead under his floppy black hair. Bokuto saw streaks on his cheeks and had to wonder: sweat… or tears?

“I’d like to help,” Bokuto told him, smiling a little, not knowing any other way to console him.

Kuroo waved him away. “Go clean something else then!”

Bokuto bit his lip, feeling like he’d been scolded, then stepped out of the steaming air and into the main kitchen. Looking around, it wasn’t immediately obvious what to clean. The kitchen was cleaned on a daily basis, the under counter coolers rinsed out daily, the hoods over the cooking equipment cleaned every other day, the grease traps drained at the end of every service. Kuroo was meticulous about cleanliness. Yaku even more so, it seemed, when he went into the pastry shop and found each surface free of absolutely everything—even powdered sugar and flour, which were notorious for going into every single nook and cranny.

He wandered around the kitchen, touching every surface until one felt a bit gritty, then would scrub and shine it until it gleamed. He changed a light bulb that had gone out. Got on his hands and knees and cleaned the feet of the equipment. He checked his phone but Akaashi hadn’t texted him. They hadn’t made plans for tonight, but he was still a bit disappointed. He wondered if he was asleep…wanted to call and ask, but last time he did that Akaashi yelled at him through the line then told him to never call after a shift again unless they had made plans and hung up on him.

Finally, around three thirty Kuroo came out of the dish room and shouted into the kitchen as he disappeared into the tiny locker room, “Why are you still here?!”

Bokuto dumped the sanitation water into a sink, made sure to wipe it down, and put the rag he was using into the laundry pile and went to the locker room to get his bag and make sure Kuroo didn’t get away. “Want to go get some food?”

“No, Bokuto, I just want to go home to my empty apartment and sleep.”

“What happened to your cat?”

Kuroo’s face darkened with annoyance. “Her owner came and took her back.” Kuroo stripped off his jacket and t-shirt and Bokuto blinked, then gasped in amazement.

“Oh that’s cool as shit, dude!” He’d never seen the tattoo on Kuroo’s back before, Kuroo typically didn’t change anything but his jacket when he left, and besides he was the slowest person in the place, always the last to leave.

The tattoo was enormous, starting at the top vertebrae of his spine and ending at the base just before the hem of his pants. It was a magnetic knife strip, the knives stuck to his spine like they could have been nerve endings, fourteen of them, all in a row. Three different utility knives, a large cleaver, a paring knife, fish boning knife, bread slicer, butcher’s knife, carving knife, cheese knife, santoku, steak knife, a long fork used for meats on a grill, and a tiny butter knife.

Kuroo glanced back at him, ran his hand along the back of his neck and reached his long fingers down to brush the top most knife and sighed. “Yeah, it was something I did in Paris when I turned twenty two. I’d just gotten a better job and was celebrating.”

“It’s awesome! I’m jealous!” Bokuto laughed and moved closer, trying not to look like a creep, but wanted to see it better.

Kuroo smiled, the smallest curve of his mouth, and stood still to allow Bokuto to inspect the blades that seemed to gleam on his skin. The art was amazing, they looked so real. “You shouldn’t be too impressed, every chef seems to get a knife somewhere on his body if they want tattoos. It’s an easy gimmick. You’ve got them.”

“Yeah, but you went balls to the wall with yours. I love it.”

Kuroo chuckled and tugged on his clean black shirt. “Thanks.”

He still seemed down, so Bokuto shouldered his duffel and said, “Let’s go get food.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Well I am, and you know, the City is no place for a pretty boy to walk alone.”

Kuroo snorted. “Bokuto you’re a train wreck. If anyone attacked you, you’d just talk them to death.”

Bokuto beamed, ignoring Kuroo’s exhausted sassiness. “All the same. Indulge me, yeah?”

Kuroo looked back at him as he sat to pull on his shoes. “I’m fine. You don’t have to babysit me.”

Bokuto shrugged. “You’re my friend. I’m hungry. I know you haven’t eaten since lunch so let’s go. It’s on me.”

Sighing, scrubbing his hands through his hair. “…. Fine.”

They left together, Kuroo locking the back door with a look of such sadness that Bokuto felt sorry for him. They walked down the street, Kuroo content in his silence, hands deep in his pockets, and Bokuto was happy to just walk beside him and keep him company for the moment.

As they turned the corner Bokuto pointed and exclaimed, “Oh, let’s get nuggets!”

Kuroo made a _who are you and what have you done with your palate_ face at him and said, “I haven’t eaten McDonalds since I was fifteen.”

“All the more reason to.” Bokuto beamed. “You’ve gotta eat shitty food sometimes. Reset your tongue.” He took Kuroo’s arm and steered him towards the golden arches even as Kuroo half attempted to dig in his heels.

“Your palate doesn’t work like that, idiot.”

“Still. We had a shitty day so let’s eat shitty food and then get drunk and—”

“Please stop, Jesus Christ.”

Bokuto beamed at him as they entered the bright fluorescent restaurant. “What do you want?”

Kuroo glowered at the menu and the bored looking girl behind the counter. “Not this.”

“Fine, go park it and I’ll bring you something.” Bokuto pointed to a tall table in the corner and pushed Kuroo towards it. He waited to make sure Kuroo actually sat and didn’t bolt before he flounced to the counter and ordered double his usual order and a few extras since he wasn’t sure what Kuroo liked.

He sat across from Kuroo and passed him a giant cup filled with sweet tea, which Kuroo sipped and choked on. “Oh my God, that’s disgusting. What is that?” He peeled the lid back and glared at the brown liquid as if it had tried to murder him.

Bokuto sipped his own through his straw. “Sweet tea. You northerners don’t know how to do sweet tea right but this is sorta close.” He’d been born and raised in Atlanta, and had travelled all over the southern states through their restaurants, but he’d never found tea better than the way his momma made it.

“I know what it is,” Kuroo said, curling his nose in distaste. “This isn’t sweet tea. This is diabetes in a cup.”

Bokuto closed the lid and inched the drink closer to him. “It’s a dollar. Drink it.”

So Kuroo did. When the girl called his number, Bokuto pranced to the counter for their food and brought it back, laughing at Kuroo’s abject look of horror.

“What the _fuck?”_

“What’s wrong with it?”

“How much do you expect me to eat?” Kuroo glared wide-eyed at him. “Are you a horse?”

Bokuto winked luridly. “Yeah, in the ways that count. Here, I wasn’t sure what you liked.” He had ordered the _Quarter Pounder Big-Mac, Double Filet-o-Fish,_ 20 piece nugget, extra large fries, and a chicken sandwich, all of which he dumped in front of Kuroo. “What’s wrong? Want ketchup or something?”

Kuroo’s mouth was hanging open. Bokuto thought he might have broken him. “Dude,” Bokuto laughed, opening the nugget container and pushing it towards him, “don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how to eat.”

Kuroo blurted, “How the _fuck_.”

Bokuto shrugged, digging through his bag for the container he brought from _je sais pas._ “Want some spicy sauce?”

Kuroo blinked, then gasped. “Is that from the restaurant?”

“Yeah, I had extra after service and I thought it would taste good on the chicken nuggets.”

Kuroo picked one up and tore it in half, showing it to him and declaring, “You know this is the worst quality chicken you can buy?”

“Bro,” Bokuto dipped his own in sauce and popped it in his mouth, “it might not even be chicken. Who cares? Here, try it with the sauce.” He handed it to Kuroo and watched as Kuroo glared at the nugget, then finally acquiesced and ate it.

“Why did you get so much?”

“Cheap and easy.” Bokuto unwrapped a sandwich and took a bite.

Kuroo sighed, but continued to eat slowly and they sat in silence for a while, both grateful for any sort of sustenance after so long without food. They were both notorious for skipping dinner before service, because they both had too much on their minds or thought the food on their stomachs would slow them down during service. They had fed over two hundred people tonight, but that meant usually skipping their own dinner unless they could slip away for five minutes and stuff their faces, which usually didn’t happen. It could easily be ten to thirteen hours between lunch and the end of service. They had both vowed several times to stop skipping dinner, but that never lasted more than a week for one reason or another.

“Look,” Bokuto said after a while, “I want to apologize again for leaving like—”

Kuroo cut him off with a gesture. “Don’t. It’s not your fault. A lot had gone wrong that night. Yuuki had to go to the hospital, Inuoka cut himself too, the prep was all fucked up, the critic ordered just the wrong thing. They also hated the curtains so… it’s not your fault.”

Bokuto chewed a piece of bacon he’d extracted from his sandwich. “Still. I wonder if I had stayed…”

“It might not have been any better. You were pissed, people can taste it when you don’t devote yourself to your food.”

Bokuto squinted at him. “You’re one of those weird _the best ingredient is love_ people aren’t you?”

“No, but I do believe that our emotions come through our work. You over salted that purée because we were in the shit. Things like that happen ten times as more when you’re mad or frustrated.”

Bokuto mumbled, “It wasn’t too salty…”

“Not by much, but the customer didn’t like it. That’s all that matters.”

Bokuto leaned back, dropping his head all the way over the chair and groaning so loudly that the girl at the counter looked over curiously. “Fuuuuuuuck.”

Kuroo laughed. “Let’s just move past it. It’s over and done with. No point beating yourself up over it now.”

“I promise to make it up to you,” Bokuto said sincerely, leaning forward and placing his hands on the table.

Kuroo grinned, popping a fry in his mouth. “Good. That’s all I can ask now.”

They spent over an hour in the restaurant (which Kuroo refused to call a restaurant, he called it _the golden gates to Hell_ ), Bokuto going back to the counter to buy extra fries three times, until they finally left, feeling a bit fatter, but happy nonetheless.

Kuroo moaned as they walked, one hand on his chest. “I feel my heart clogging up.”

Bokuto sipped on his refilled tea. “Wash it out with tea, bro.”

“You’re disgusting.” They stopped at a corner. “Are you going home?”

Bokuto glanced at the sky, then the clock on his phone when he realized he couldn’t read the time in the stars. “I don’t know… I live in Brooklyn and it’s a bit far… but Akaashi’s place is close.”

Bokuto had told him about Akaashi after they had both cooled off from the initial fight, told him how much he liked the model. Kuroo raised his eyebrows. “It’s almost five in the morning.”

“He gets up early.”

“Just find somewhere safe to crash, okay?”

Bokuto smiled and nodded. “I will. See you. Thanks for getting dinner with me.”

Kuroo shook his head, turning to cross the street. “I can’t believe you got me to eat McDonalds.”

Bokuto watched until he’d gotten into a cab then he turned and walked towards the Village, sipping his tea.

 

* * *

 

When he made it to the house the sun was just barely beginning to brighten the sky. He sat against the door, drunk on exhaustion, head spinning and seeing little black spots. He tried to remember how much sleep he’d had in the last week, and… found that it wasn’t much. Not enough, really. Not nearly enough. He lived on too little sleep and too much work. But he’d always been that way, always needed something to work towards.

In school it was volleyball—he’d have late practices, early practices, gave his everything to games until he was spent out and too weak to stand. Even before he graduated he started working in a local pizzeria, coming in early to make dough and cut peppers and shred cheese, staying late to scrub dish pans of the extra dough—because when dough hit water in the dishwasher it expanded and would flood the entire floor with hot, sudsy, yeasty water. He would get yelled at by the owner, a half hour lecture on the ineptitude of youth these days and all sorts of things that had nothing to do with the dishwasher.

The door opened and Bokuto fell backwards, scrambling to not drop his tea and not crack his head into the ground.

Matsukawa looked down at him sleepily, scowling. “I wondered what that smell was.” He was dressed in a fluffy bathrobe that didn’t seem to close completely and absolutely nothing else.

“I don’t smell!”

“You smell like onions.”

Bokuto frowned, squinting at him. “Liar. I didn’t even chop onions today.” He paused. “Yesterday.”

Matsukawa reached down to help him up then grabbed his shirt to steady him as Bokuto wavered, swaying dangerously backwards over the steps. “I saw you from our window. Why are you on our stoop?”

“Wanted to see Akaashi,” Bokuto said simply, then held up his drink. “Does he like tea?”

Matsukawa pulled him inside and closed the door. “Are you drunk?”

“No.”

Matsukawa sniffed him, then scowled, looking him up and down. “You look like shit.”

“Thank you!”

“Can you make breakfast?”

Bokuto was about to say _sure_ when he heard a creak on the stair and looked up to see Akaashi standing there in fuzzy pajamas with little owls on them. “Bokuto?”

Bokuto smiled, pushed Matsukawa’s hand off him and went to the rail, reaching over and patting Akaashi’s chest. “Oh, so soft!”

Akaashi looked down at him with amusement and mortification. “What are you doing here? It’s—like—six am.”

Matsukawa snorted. “He can make breakfast.”

“Shut up, he’s—”

“No, I can do it!” Bokuto smiled. “I don’t mind.”

Akaashi came the rest of the way down the stairs and stood in front of him, scrutinizing his face. “Are you alright?”

Bokuto touched his lips. “I will be.”

Akaashi blushed and glanced at Matsukawa, who had folded his arms and was watching them with raised eyebrows. “Have you slept at all?” Akaashi asked instead.

Bokuto kept his finger touched to his lips, waiting until, with a huff, Akaashi gave him a small kiss.

“You should sleep,” Akaashi told him sternly.

“I want breakfast,” Matsukawa said.

Akaashi snapped at him, “Make it yourself then, ass!” Then he took Bokuto by the arm and pulled him upstairs.

“Oh, do I get to see your bedroom?”

“Hush,” Akaashi told him, pulling him into his bedroom and taking his bag from him. “You can’t just not sleep, Bokuto.”

“I was helping Kuroo feel better,” Bokuto explained, plopping onto the bed when Akaashi pushed him gently down. “Oh, oh, here, try this!” He held up the last of his tea and shook it in Akaashi’s face.

Akaashi scowled at the cup but took it from him. “What is it?”

“Tea!”

He didn’t look happy about it, but opened the lid and took a sip when Bokuto begged him to do it. “Oh, gross,” he gagged, “that’s disgusting.”

Bokuto gasped. “How can you say that? It’s delicious!”

“It’s got so much sugar!” Akaashi wouldn’t give it back to him. “No. You need less sugar and more sleep. Go to sleep now.”

Bokuto let Akaashi push him down onto the pillows. “I can sleep in your bed?”

“Yeah, I’m scared you’ll get lost on your way home if you don’t. I’ll try not to wake you up while I get dressed.” He pulled the blankets up over Bokuto’s chest, they were heavy and thick, too thick, but they smelled like Akaashi (clean soap, mint, and lavender) so Bokuto buried himself in them.

He watched through half closed eyes as Akaashi moved around the room and picked up clothing from different piles. Akaashi’s room was messy, to put it mildly. He had piles of clothes everywhere, folded in one fashion or another, spilling out from the closet in the corner. He had a dresser covered in products that Bokuto couldn’t begin to guess the purpose of, and the drawers were stuffed to bursting, sleeves and pant legs poking and lolling out like the tongues of some fantastical monster. There was nothing dirty in the room, it was just full of stuff. He had camera equipment in one corner, posters on the walls of other models (at least Bokuto assumed that’s who they were), and shoes for days, all lined up like little soldiers until they became too numerous and were shoved into a pile.

“You have a lot of clothes,” Bokuto mumbled, half asleep.

Akaashi looked over at him, folding some shirts into a small bag. “Yeah. I get a lot of them from my shoots, or I get paid in gift cards to certain places. It’s nice though, I guess.” He came over, touched Bokuto’s forehead, and sighed. “Look. Sleep as long as you want to. I’m coming back around three … if you’re still here—”

Bokuto gasped. “We can go get lunch?”

Akaashi rolled his eyes. “That’s not what I was going to say.”

“But it’s a good idea. Do you like Italian? I like it. Kuroo wants to do an Italian menu sometime. With fresh pasta and stuff. Have you ever made pasta?”

Akaashi shut him up with a kiss. “Stop talking, dummy. You’re mad with fatigue. Go to sleep.”

“Mhm, it smells good in here.”

Akaashi laughed and stood, picking up a jacket from a chair beside his dresser. “Don’t trash the house while we’re gone.”

“Looks like you’ve got that covered.” Bokuto giggled.

“Shut up.” Akaashi laughed, then turned off the light and closed the door behind him.

Bokuto snuggled deeper into the bed, turning his face into Akaashi’s pillow and letting his scent fill his lungs, breathing it in until he dozed off into sleep.


	11. velouté

Mondays were both a blessing and a curse for Kuroo. A blessing because it was his only off day from _je sais pas_ and he was able to catch up on sleep, laundry, and his TV shows. The rest was always needed, and he found that he hated to go anywhere or do anything on Mondays unless it was absolutely, strictly necessary.

The bad thing about Mondays? He wasn’t in the kitchen. He wasn’t working. He liked the work. It wasn’t work if you loved what you did. Cooking and creating were his passion, and the days he couldn’t do them he felt like he was dying just a little inside. But he’d learned that if he didn’t take a break he would burn himself out and be unable to think properly when he needed his creative mind the most.

So…. Mondays he spent lazily, losing himself in trash television, and coffee, and any sleep he could catch up on. On this particular Monday morning, he was sitting on his balcony sipping his coffee, mentally trying to remember where all his dirty laundry was that he needed to send down to the laundromat in his building when Madame poked her head through the railing and meowed at him.

He nearly dropped his cup in his surprise. “Madame! My God, what are you doing? You’re going to fall to your death.” He went to her and scooped her up, petting her head and pressing his nose into her fur while she purred. He looked at the ledge she had been walking on to cross from his neighbor’s balcony to his own and shuddered, feeling sick to his stomach.

It didn’t matter if cats could land on their feet if the fall would kill them.

He stroked her fur and took her inside to feed her the cat food he still had tucked away in the corner of the fridge. “How are you, girl? Now, listen, you can’t be walking on that anymore. It’s dangerous. One wrong move and it’s all over, you hear?”

_“Mwrow.”_

“Yeah, I know you like it, it’s probably fun being up so high, but you’re giving me a heart attack! Just to think what would happen…”

A knock at his door startled him. He covered the pot with her food warming in it and went to answer it. It was his neighbor, looking pale and wide eyed. “Is Cera here?”

Kuroo had to laugh, but that too was filled with the dread of imagining the cat falling to her death. “Yeah. Did you see how she got over here?”

“Yes,” the man said. “I saw her squeeze through the bars while I was in my office. I had no idea she could even fit.”

Kuroo waved him inside, moving into his kitchen to stir the food. “Well, you’ll just have to be more careful from now on. Don’t let her on the deck unsupervised.”

The cat sat in the kitchen, staring at the pot where she could smell the warming cat food. “Wait,” Kuroo said in confusion, looking back at him. “What did you call her?” The food was heated through, so he spooned it into a bowl and set it on the floor for her.

The man was watching this with a disapproving glare. “Her name. And what is that you’re feeding her? She can’t eat—”

“She absolutely can. It’s a homemade cat food I made for her. It’s very healthy.”

The man scowled, half glaring at Kuroo and half at the cat. “So that’s why she won’t eat what I feed her anymore.”

Kuroo laughed. “What are you feeding her?”

“Fancy feast.”

Kuroo stared at him. “Fancy… _feast.”_

“It’s a cat food,” the man snapped.

“Canned cat food? No wonder she won’t eat that garbage.” Kuroo folded his arms, proud of Madame for her elevated tastes.

The man scowled at him, huffing in aggravation. “And just who are you to judge me on what I feed my cat?”

“I’m a chef. And animals have just as much right to put good things in their bodies as humans do.”

The man blinked, looking taken aback for a moment before he squinted at Kuroo. “Who are you?”

Kuroo raised his eyebrows, wondering if the man was some sort of foodie. “Kuroo Tetsurou, chef owner of _je sais pas_ over near Columbus Circle.”

The man’s face didn’t change other than the smallest widening of his eyes, so small that Kuroo wasn’t sure if he had even seen it. Did he recognize Kuroo? Had he eaten at his restaurant? He rubbed his eyes with his fingers under his glasses and fixed them before extending a hand. “Tsukishima Kei. And my cat’s name is Cera.”

Kuroo took his hand. “I call her Madame.”

“That’s stupid.”

Kuroo laughed, crouching to pet the cat. “She likes it. And my food. Look, I can keep making it for her. I don’t mind. One batch will last a whole month if you keep it stored properly. It’s healthy for her, too.”

Tsukishima sighed. “You really don’t have to do that.”

“Do you plan on making her food?”

“No.”

“Well then, I don’t see the problem. I’ll do it and you’ll feed her and bring her over on Mondays.”

Tsukishima actually laughed. “This isn’t a custody battle.”

“No, it’s not a battle, nor is it a negotiation,” Kuroo grinned and straightened, “because you want what’s best for her just as much as I do.”

“You’re crazy, you don’t know me or my cat.”

“Our cat.”

Tsukishima rolled his eyes and leaned on the counter. “Oh my God. You’re insufferable.” He sighed, looking at the cat with frustration and love. “… Fine. Only because I don’t want her to starve herself. I’ll pay you for ingredients, though.”

“That’s not necessary,” Kuroo assured him. “Repay me with your company.”

“I thought you only wanted the cat?”

Kuroo smiled his best simmering, flirty smile. “I like pretty things. Are you hungry? I can make us breakfast.”

Tsukishima glanced away, pursing his lips and trying to hide his blush. “I was going to go out, actually.”

“Hm… shame. Leave Madame, I’ll watch her today. When you’re ready for dinner come back for her and I’ll make you something delicious.”

“What makes you think I don’t already have dinner plans?”

Kuroo blinked, feeling suddenly foolish. “Oh. I—…Sorry.”

“But you can watch Cera for today. Make sure to play with her or you’ll find out how sharp her claws are when you least expect it.” Tsukishima smiled at him, amused at the thought of the cat clawing Kuroo’s eyes out. “Close the balcony door, I suppose. I’ll be back for her later.”

Kuroo smiled, saying, “I’ll have her food packed up for you.”

Tsukishima gave him a look that was equal parts annoyance and acceptance, then left the apartment. Kuroo looked down at Madame. “So, I’ll just call you Madame Cera then, eh? What do you think?”

She turned her big blue eyes on him, licked her lips, and meowed.

 

* * *

 

Bokuto glared at his mailbox—absolutely beside himself with annoyance. This was getting goddamn ridiculous.

His coupons. Gone. _Again._

He asked the mailman, who he’d cornered in the lobby, “What happened to my coupons?”

The man, very short, cowering under Bokuto’s height whimpered, “I—I don’t know. I put them there yesterday and then I left. I swear!”

Bokuto clenched his fist and turned away, shaking it at the invisible thief. “You dick! Come back here so I can kick your ass!”

The mailman slipped away, running out the door and muttering something about inner city idiots. Bokuto folded his arms and stood simmering inside, trying to figure out what he would do. Maybe he could buy a camera and set it up in the lobby. No, that might be creepy. He should start coming home immediately from work on Sundays and grab them. He’d forgotten the past few weeks, being either at Akaashi’s or too exhausted to think to check the mail until Monday morning. He’d have to be more diligent. He huffed and stalked off to the gym, stomping the whole way and scaring small children into crossing the street to get away from him.

Hinata was waiting for him, bright eyed and shivering with excitement. “Hey, Bokuto! I’m here, just like you said!”

Bokuto couldn’t help but smile and laugh as he put his things away. “Hey, hey, hey, my young disciple! You ready for your first real workout?”

Hinata took a deep breath and clenched both his fists. “Yes!”

“I love your enthusiasm, little dude. So, what I’m thinking, since you want to build muscle, is a three day plan. I can come in the mornings on Wednesday and Friday for a few weeks to teach you how to do some things and make sure you won’t kill yourself without me here.”

Hinata laughed sheepishly and rubbed the back of his neck. “I haven’t done anything with the weights since last week.”

Bokuto shrugged and tugged on an elbow brace for his right arm. “That’s alright, I’ll teach you how to do it. I was thinking we’ll start off simple, and once you’ve stabilized and built up certain muscles we can start doing things that are a bit harder but with more pay off. It’ll take a while, you get that, right? Don’t expect to be Schwarzenegger in a week.”

“Who’s that?” Hinata blinked at him.

“Dude, have you not seen The Terminator?”

“No?”

Bokuto moaned, gently slapping his own forehead. “Oh my God I have more to educate you in than just workouts.”

They started simple, Bokuto asking Hinata to explain to him what he wanted, what he could do, and Bokuto deciding quickly what sort of beginner program to start Hinata on. Hinata groaned at it when Bokuto began explaining it to him, saying it was too easy, but Bokuto said that once he could do all the basics with perfect form and he’d built up enough muscle that it stopped being effective, then he’d get more fun workouts.

At the end of their first session together, Hinata was collapsed and sweaty on the floor, panting hard. Bokuto leaned over him, grinning, arms folded. “I told you, my little disciple, that I wouldn’t make it easy for you.”

Hinata had his arms flung out, the vein in his neck throbbing with blood. “I—“ he gasped. “You didn’t have to go so hard on me on the first day.”

Bokuto pulled him to his feet, making sure he was steady before letting him go. “You’re gonna be okay. Make sure to eat plenty, like a lot, like way too much, or else you’ll never build muscle. And maybe go get some protein shakes or something.”

Hinata stretched his back, groaning softly at the tension in his muscles. “Okay…” He winced at pain in his legs and smacked his thighs with his fists.

“Come on,” Bokuto told him. “Do some cool down stretches then go home and rest. I’ll see you on Wednesday, but it’s gotta be early, like eight or nine.”

“Okay, I’ll be here.”

Bokuto retrieved his bag from the locker room, thinking he might have to come an hour early or stay later next time to get his own workout in. He liked teaching the kid, but it left little time for his own needs. Before he left he saw several people walking in, talking loudly. Bokuto smelled the pizza at the same time he spied it being carried inside. “Oh, I forgot!” He grinned, patting Hinata on the shoulder. “Free pizza on Mondays.”

Hinata’s eyes shone and they made their way over, chatting with the people who had brought it in. Bokuto ate a piece then waited for just the right moment… and he took a whole pizza, rolled it up like sushi, and walked away, eating the end in a giant, crust filled bite. At the door he turned and waved at Hinata. “See you Wednesday!”

On the walk to the subway he managed to eat the rest of the rolled up pizza then leaned on the stairs smoking as he called Akaashi. “Hey, can I come over?”

Akaashi was quiet for a moment, then said in a low voice, “Why?”

Bokuto actually stopped in the middle of a breath. “… to hang out?”

“Oh.” His voice rose a bit, pleasant now. “Sure. We’re having a movie night.”

“I love movies!”

Akaashi laughed. “Good.” His voice sounded far away as he turned his head from the microphone: “What? No, I can’t ask him—hey! Give it back!”

Matsukawa’s voice was on the line now. “You’re coming over?”

“Yup! Do you want something?”

“Bring Chinese?”

Bokuto laughed. “Models eat take out? I thought you guys ate salads and fruit?”

“You’ve seen us eat. Bring whatever looks good.” There was the sound of the phone being handed over and Akaashi was back.

“You don’t have to listen to him. He’s not the—”

Bokuto said quickly, “No, no, it’s fine. I like Chinese food! You like egg rolls?”

Akaashi sounded pained, but mumbled. “Sure…”

“Good, I’ll be there in like forty five minutes.”

“See you, then.”

 

* * *

 

At the house, someone must have been watching for him, because Hanamaki opened the door before Bokuto had even climbed the stairs fully and took the food bags from his hands. “What’d you get?”

“Egg rolls. Crab wontons. Rice, lots of rice. Some fried rice. Sweet and sour pork, kung pao chicken, teriyaki beef, lots of stuff, just check the box, it should say.”

Hanamaki grinned and took it to the front room and set it on the coffee table. “Ah, good, they gave us chopsticks.”

Akaashi came down the stairs. “That didn’t take long.”

Bokuto extended a hand and Akaashi moved closer, allowing Bokuto to put an arm around him and tug him against his side, kissing the side of his head. “How was your day?”

Akaashi looked up at him, frowned at the sweat on his forehead, but didn’t pull away. “Fine. Yourself?”

Bokuto looked down at him, smiling, pleased to see that he looked less tired than he had last time they’d seen each other. “Better now.”

Matsukawa plodded down the stairs. “You two disgust me,” but he said it pleasantly, and crossed to the couch to pick up one of the fried crab squares. He reached with his free hand and caressed the back of Hanamaki’s head, his fingers curling along his neck and into the choker he always wore.

“You can’t talk.” Akaashi snorted, then patted Bokuto’s back. “Eat up, we’re watching CLUE.”

So they ate sitting around the coffee table, watching Tim Curry, Madeline Kahn, and Christopher Lloyd run around a giant mansion with unconventional weapons. Bokuto had never seen the movie, and was enraptured as more and more people died in more outrageous ways.

“Who did it?!” Bokuto asked, sitting knee to knee with Akaashi, trying to feed him egg rolls.

Akaashi laughed, pushing his hand away. “Just wait and see.”

Hanamaki stood, shuddered and made a small noise in his throat, then managed to compose himself as he picked up the empty food containers. “We’re not even halfway through.”

Matsukawa smirked at him, reaching around to slide a hand over his ass, pulling Hanamaki close so he could kiss the patch of bare skin on his hip he exposed with his fingers. When he spoke his voice was raised enough that Bokuto knew it was for him though, “Come on, fatty, come upstairs. We’ve gotta put your face on.”

Akaashi snickered as Bokuto’s face fell and he protested, but couldn’t quite manage the conviction he’d intended. “I’m not fat?”

“Go on.” Akaashi kissed his cheek. “Makki and I will clean up.”

Matsukawa took Bokuto up to the tiny bathroom and plopped him on the closed toilet seat then squinted at his face. “Do you ever wash your face?”

“When I’m in the shower, yeah.”

Matsukawa frowned, picking through the jars on the counter. “With what?”

“Soap?” Bokuto said dumbly. “What else would I use?”

“A face wash?”

“But my soap says it’s a three in one.”

Matsukawa glared at him, scoffed, “Men,” as if he wasn’t one himself, and pulled a jar from the medicine cabinet. “Okay, sit still.” He opened the jar and scooped out a dark mud-like substance.

When he moved it towards his face, Bokuto leaned away. “Whoah, what’s that?”

Matsukawa kicked his leg. “Don’t move.” He reached forward again but Bokuto kept leaning back until he was pushed against the tank. “It’s a mud mask. It’s good for your skin.”

“Mud is good for skin?”

Matsukawa sighed, holding his hands up, covered in the lavender and lemon smelling mud. “Oh wait, tie your hair back.”

Bokuto blinked at him. “What?”

“Oh my God, are you stupid? Just do what I say—you put your hair back all the time.”

“When I’m cooking so I don’t get hair or sweat in the food.”

“Would you just fucking do it?” He sounded like he wasn't used to people questioning his wishes.

Bokuto sighed and reached over, then tucked his spiky hair underneath a bandana. Matsukawa waited until he was through then leaned forward and touched the mud to his cheeks, spreading it in a thick layer over the whole of his face. It was strange to have someone’s hands on his face like this, but Matsukawa didn’t make it weird, instead it felt like a professional: swift movements of his fingers and a frown on his face. Bokuto poked his tongue out and made a face.

“It tastes disgusting.”

Matsukawa glowered at him. “It’s mud, dumb-ass.” He cocked his head, then with a final swipe he pulled back. “There, you’re done. Go get Makki and send him up.”

Bokuto stood, inching around him, having to bend his spine uncomfortably when Matsukawa didn’t bother moving an inch to give him any extra space. “Why are we doing this again?”

“Rules of the house,” he declared. “Gotta look good.”

Bokuto looked in the mirror and blinked, stunned at the literal mud on his face. This didn’t make any sense to him, but whatever, he would try anything once. He made his way downstairs as Matsukawa did his own face.

“Hanamaki? He’s asking for you.”

Hanamaki looked up, food in his mouth again. “Thanks! Keiji, you wanna come too?”

Akaashi made a face, color rising on his pale cheeks. “Be in a bathroom with you two weirdos? Absolutely not. I’ll do it on my own.”

“Suit yourself.” Hanamaki grinned and climbed up the stairs.

Bokuto sat on the couch beside Akaashi, reaching up to poke at the mud mask but Akaashi smacked his hand down. “Do they really have that much sex or something?”

Akaashi chuckled, chewing on the end of a chopstick. “You have no idea. It’s ridiculous. They’re animals.” He paused in thought then said, “Actually, they do some kinky stuff. It’s weird when I walk in a room they’re in and Makki is sitting at his feet or letting Mattsun pet his head like a dog.”

Bokuto raised his eyebrows, then laughed to himself because his eyebrows didn’t even move. “That’s odd. Wonder what they’re into?”

“I’ve heard him call Mattsun _sir.”_

“Huh…” Bokuto shrugged. “I guess that’s what the…” He pantomimed at his throat where Hanamaki wore the thin leather collar. “Whatever people are into, I guess.”

Akaashi laughed. “Yeah, they seem happy.” He glanced over at Bokuto, one elegant eyebrow arched delicately and a tilt to his lips. “Would you call me sir?”

Bokuto’s jeans became decidedly tighter at the look on Akaashi’s face and he felt the mud on his face tighten and crack as his mouth fell open.

Akaashi laughed and stood, patting his hair. “Don’t touch it, okay? I’ll be back.” And he vanished upstairs too, leaving Bokuto to squirm and hold a pillow over his crotch.

They spent the next half hour watching more of CLUE, Bokuto screaming at the television every time someone else died. Akaashi and Hanamaki giggled at him, and Matsukawa kept telling him _calm down, you’ll find out soon enough._

But before it was over Akaashi pulled him back upstairs to the bathroom to rinse off their faces. Akaashi told him to lean his face over the warm water and gently scrub the dried mud off, which Bokuto felt awkward doing, since the mud was dried and caked on. He scrubbed his face like a mad man, peeling at the stuck bits, which made Akaashi scold him and call him an ape for doing so. After he and Akaashi were both bereft of their mud Akaashi asked, “Well? How do you feel?”

Bokuto touched his cheeks with his fingertips. “It’s really soft!”

Akaashi grinned at him, eyes shining and amused. “That’s what it does. I can’t believe you’ve never properly washed your face before. How old are you?”

“Twenty six.”

Akaashi shook his head in disbelief. “Animal,” he declared. He picked up a jar from the counter and opened it, dipped his fingers in soft looking, citrus smelling cream, like grapefruits. “Hold still,” he told Bokuto, then with his ring fingers he touched the cream to his face and spread it gently. Bokuto closed his eyes, the coolness of it was soothing to his skin, and Akaashi’s fingers were nice, too.

“What’s this?”

“Moisturizer—to make it feel even better.”

“Mhm…”

When he was done, Akaashi did his own face, barely glancing in the mirror, then he said, “There? Isn’t that better?”

Instead of responding, Bokuto reached for him and pulled him close, pressing their lips together, running his hands over Akaashi’s shoulders and up to cup his jaw with his thumbs. Akaashi sighed into his mouth, leaning against him, spreading his hands over Bokuto’s chest and around to his back.

“You’re too pretty,” Bokuto said against his lips, the scent of the cream in his nose, mint on his tongue that came from Akaashi’s mouth. He always tasted of mint. “You’re so pretty it hurts.”

Akaashi laughed, tilting his head to bite at Bokuto’s lower lip. “Shhh.”

He hated being told he was good looking, as if he didn’t believe it. “It’s true.” Bokuto pulled away, tilted his face upwards and held him still so he could look into his eyes, lovely sapphires that melted Bokuto’s insides to putty. “You’re the most beautiful creature I’ve ever met.”

Akaashi made a face, a half smile, half grimace. “You say that like I’m some sort of unicorn.”

Bokuto grinned, touched their noses together. “You’re a fantastical, wonderful, mythical being and I’m not worthy to be in your presence.”

Akaashi smiled, trying not to laugh as Bokuto kissed him again to prove his point. Bokuto licked his way into Akaashi’s mouth, ran his tongue along his lips and searched the corners of his mouth for his breath and stole it from him, until Akaashi was practically a puddle in his arms, moaning softly in his throat.

“Bo—” Akaashi turned his head away, catching his breath, as Bokuto trailed his lips up to his ear and nibbled at his earlobe. “Bokuto, would you like to…” Here he paused, breathing hard and Bokuto looked down at him, his heart suddenly too full for words. “Stay with me tonight?” He put his hands on Bokuto’s face to push him away and held him after Bokuto tried to answer a resounding _yes yes yes_ by latching onto his throat with his teeth. “Not for sex. I don’t want to sleep with you.”

Bokuto did pull away now, extracting his face and taking Akaashi’s fingers with his own. “You don’t?” His stomach dropped to his feet, leaving the icy hot sense of confusion and arousal pooling deep in his belly.

“No…” Akaashi mumbled. “I don’t know you.”

Bokuto opened his mouth to protest—they’d known each other for over a month now, had been kissing like teenagers at least once every time they met. Bokuto had slept with people he’d known for half an hour on the taxi ride home. He had taken Akaashi on dinner dates, or so he’d thought, and made him meals, had even slept in his bed… granted, Akaashi hadn’t been present for that. This _going slow_ was a new concept for him.

“What… “ he paused, unsure what to say. If Akaashi wasn’t attracted to him, then that was that, there was nothing he could do. And he sure as hell wouldn’t force him. “…Okay.”

Akaashi sighed, turning Bokuto’s hands over so he could stroke the calluses on his palm with his thumb, then traced the knife tattoos on his fingers. “It’s not that I don’t like you,” he said gently, his eyes never meeting Bokuto’s. “It’s just that we really don’t know much about each other. I’m not promiscuous… I don’t sleep around. And we’re not even dating.”

Bokuto blinked, stunned. “We’re not?” He’d thought they had been, at least in the loosest sense of the word.

Akaashi chuckled, squeezed his palms and Bokuto flinched at the pain in his left hand leftover from the knife wound. “Sorry,” Akaashi let his hands go, finally looking up at him, “and I don’t know what we’re doing. We’ve never talked about it. You just… inserted yourself into my life and…” His face softened with a smile. “I’ve really enjoyed it… but I don’t know what we’re doing.”

Bokuto smiled back, hoping that his enthusiasm would spill over and bleed into Akaashi. “We can be, if you want to.”

“Dating?”

“Well, yeah. I’d like that.” Bokuto raised one hand to touch his cheek, noticed how his already soft skin was smoother than ever and liking it immensely.

“Oh…” Akaashi’s face was pink from the warm water, but it flushed a deeper shade under Bokuto’s gaze. “Alright. I’d like that, too.”

Bokuto grinned. “So we’re boyfriends?”

“I guess so.” Akaashi shook his head, but smiled back, pleased.

“And boyfriends sleep in the same bed, right? Your bed is comfortable… but I’d like to have you in it.”

“…. I suppose. But my statement still stands… I don’t want to…”

Bokuto traced his cheekbones with his fingertips. “Fine, fine. Giving me blue balls here, but fine. I’ll wait for you, if that’s what you want.”

Akaashi flushed again, but pulled away, turning to ring out the cloth they’d used. “I’d… really appreciate that.”

Hanamaki came up the stairs, humming the soundtrack to the film and asking once he got to the bathroom, “What are you two lovebirds doing?”

“Something more innocent than you’ve ever done in this bathroom, Makki,” Akaashi said to him, before taking Bokuto’s wrist and pulling him out. Two people was too much for the tiny bathroom, much less three or four as Matsukawa came up the stairs.“Do you mind if we finish the movie?” Akaashi asked them.

“No,” Matsukawa said. “We’re done for the evening. Thanks for the food.” He waved a hand at Bokuto, then stepped into the bathroom and closed the door firmly. Bokuto thought he heard a lock click.

Akaashi turned his fingers so they could twine around Bokuto’s. “Come on,” he said. “Before we can hear noises.”

Bokuto laughed, enjoying the feeling of their fingers tucked together, and followed him down. They finished the movie, but Bokuto wasn’t paying attention to it, instead he marveled at the feel of Akaashi’s fingers in his, tracing the fine bones. When he had memorized the lines of his palm, he took Akaashi’s face in his hands and kissed him, trying to memorize the feel of his skull under his fingers and the taste of his mouth.

 

* * *

 

Tsukishima came for Madame Cera late in the evening, well after dinner time. “Did you eat yet?” Kuroo asked, since his own dinner was cooking on the stove top.

“Yes,” Tsukishima said, glancing around at the expensive renovations Kuroo had done to his kitchen. “Is this real marble?”

“Sure is.” Kuroo grinned, running his palm over a space on the countertop. “Best thing for cooking, I think. Especially good for chocolates.”

“You make chocolates?”

“No, but if I wanted to I have the proper counter top for it. It doesn’t hold temperatures well, so it’s good for cooling chocolates and sugar quickly.”

Tsukishima raised an eyebrow. “And the wine cabinet?”

Kuroo laughed as he looked over at it. “Ah, that’s just vanity, I suppose. I like wine. I like _good_ wine.”

“That would be one thing we agree on.”

“We also agree on cats.”

That made Tsukishima laugh, sounding like he surprised even himself when he did it. “I suppose we do. I’ll take her home now.”

“Wait, wait.” Kuroo pulled out a large bag from the fridge and handed it to him. “It’s her food. You can do one container a day, just split in half and heat it up on the stove or in the microwave. Not _hot_ mind you, just maybe to room temperature.”

Tsukishima glanced in the bag. “How much is in here?” he asked, shocked.

“Enough for the month. I was thinking of doing something with chicken next month.”

Tsukishima shook his head. “You really don’t have to—”

Kuroo held up a hand to cut him off. “Nonsense. I want to. Just take it.”

He made a face, but tucked the bag onto his shoulder. “Thank you…”

“You’re welcome.” Kuroo grinned at him. “Say, what are you doing tomorrow morning?”

“Depends,” Tsukishima said hesitantly, leaning down to pet the cat as she rubbed against his leg. “What time?”

“Six?”

“In the morning?”

Kuroo chuckled at the incredulous look on his face. “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

“Uh…sleeping, hopefully.”

Kuroo reached down and took the cat from him, holding her against his chest. “How about this, I’m going to the market tomorrow, and I’d like you to come with me." He held the cat close, as if holding her hostage until he got the answer he wanted.

Tsukishima narrowed his eyes at him. “What for?”

“I’d like to see what kinds of food you like. I want to spend time with you. We do share a child now.”

“We share a cat.”

“She’s a fur baby.”

Tsukishima rolled his eyes, but Kuroo only smiled at him, petting the cat and feeling like a super villain as she purred. “Fine,” Tsukishima said. “Only if you make breakfast for my troubles.”

“Done.”

“And I mean a good breakfast.”

“You can decide what it is after we go to the market.”

Tsukishima reached for the cat and Kuroo let him, forcing Tsukishima to take her from him in such a way that their hands touched. “See you tomorrow. I’ll come get you.”

Tsukishima tucked the bag against his side and nodded, then left the apartment, but Kuroo didn’t miss the glance he shot back at him.He pried open the stopper on his half empty bottle of wine and took it to the couch, flipped on the Discovery Channel, and took a drink. He should have gotten a glass, it was hard to enjoy the flavor of wine when you couldn’t smell it—as much of the flavor came from the aroma as the taste. But he was still frustrated. The review, the cat, and at the thought that he might lose the restaurant and have nothing to show for all the work he’d done over the last half a year. He wanted to get drunk more than just enjoy a glass of wine.

His phone buzzed a while later, after he was pleasantly buzzed, and he wanted to ignore it, but he was a curious creature and couldn’t leave it alone for long, so he picked it up and flicked open the screen to his emails. He found, to his delight, a reply to his hasty email to the critic from two days prior.

He read it over, and was at first horrified to find that the critic was booked full for several months, and could not come until after that time. But if Kuroo would put aside some time down in the books then they would certainly come by then. If he would get back to them about the specific day and time, they would add it to their calendar as well.

The last paragraph puzzled him: _It is not often that I extend such a offer of a revisit. But your words have intrigued me, as did your idea that I did not understand your food. I hope that, when I do return, you will make your ideas more clear so that it is not only obvious to myself what you are trying to say, but to the masses as well._

Kuroo smiled, and sipped at the wine, texting his group with a screenshot of the email and adding, _We’ve got work to do._

Immediately there came back several responses from Kai and Yaku, both of which had the same context: _hell yes!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CLUE is one of my favorite movies and I'm considering putting it in EVERY fic if the opportunity presents itself. and if you haven't seen it go rent it on Amazon or something. It's amazing. Truly a gift <3


	12. baguettes

Kuroo woke earlier than usual and was waiting outside Tsukishima’s door at 5:59 in the morning, staring at his watch and waiting for the second hand to make its way around the face.

When it did, he rapped his knuckles on the wood.

Tsukishima opened the door after a moment, face pinched with annoyance. “How long were you waiting at the door?”

Kuroo grinned. “How’d you know?” Madame Cera padded into the hall, rubbing against his leg and purring. “Ah, there she is.”

“She was sniffing at the crack of the door,” Tsukishima said, turning away and moving back to his kitchen and lifting a mug of what was probably coffee to his lips. Kuroo was amused to see that the handle of the mug was the neck of a long necked dinosaur.

“Cute.” Kuroo pointed to it, picking up the cat and stepping into the apartment that was the mirror of his own, with a less nice kitchen, but a much nicer living room.

Tsukishima scowled and poured out his coffee, hiding the mug in the sink. “You said you wanted to go out?”

“Yes, the farmers market. I want to show you food in its natural form.”

Tsukishima gave him a strange, disbelieving look. “I know what food looks like.”

“Still, come with me.”

Tsukishima sighed, but slipped his socked feet into his shoes at the door. “Come on then, can’t be late, all the good stuff will be gone.”

Kuroo grinned and dropped the cat on an armchair. _“À plus tard, ma petite.”_ He scratched under her chin before following Tsukishima out and they got on the elevator, Kuroo unable to keep the smile off his face.

“What’s up with your face?”

“This is my happy face. Don’t you know what a smile is?” Kuroo looked over, smirking, and winked. “Try it, it’s fun.”

Tsukishima rolled his eyes and stepped off the elevator, walking across the large, well lit lobby in long strides. It tickled Kuroo to no end that he could keep up with him easily—because clearly Tsukishima was trying to outpace him and couldn’t. “Come this way,” Kuroo said, hands in his pockets, stopping on the corner and waiting for traffic to ease. “So, you look tired. Did you not sleep well?”

“I work long nights,” Tsukishima said flatly, stepping into the street.

Kuroo bounced along beside him. “Doing what? Something kinky? Is that how you make all your money?”

Tsukishima glowered at him. “Of course not, you imbecile. I’m a writer.”

“Oh, really? Erotica novels?”

“No!” He rolled his eyes and groaned in aggravation. “Christ, you’re a pervert. Is this what our friendship will be like—you making dirty remarks while I try and have a normal conversation?”

“We’re friends? Wonderful. No, it won’t be most of it, I promise. I’m just trying to get to know you.”

“If we remain friends, then I’m sure it will come with time. I don’t like being interrogated.”

Kuroo pursed his lips, trying not to laugh. “Sorry.”

At the open air market, Kuroo pursued the stalls with Tsukishima following along behind him. Kuroo would pick up vegetables and offer it to him for his approval: cucumbers, avocados, eggplants, chili peppers. With each one, Kuroo would explain how to tell when each was good: the feel of the product, the smell, how to look for splotches or colors or foul odors.Tsukishima listened closely, took each piece of produce as Kuroo handed it to him, listened to his advice, then would declare a piece edible or not. Kuroo was impressed with him and how quickly he understood all of the information thrown at him.

 _“Polpetto! Vieni qui—_ quickly, quickly,” an elderly Italian woman called from one of the stalls, waving her nimble hands at them.

Kuroo smiled at her and went around the table to put his arms around her in a gentle hug. _“Signora,_ good morning. What have you got for me today?” He kissed her cheek and she grinned at him, cackling.

“Something you’re going to love,” she crooned, pointing a finger at him. “My grandson brought them over special.” She touched the wrinkled digit to her lips, winking at him. “It’s a secret, you know.”

Kuroo nodded, touching his own mouth with a finger. _“Certo, certo._ My lips are sealed.”

Her bright blue eyes gleamed and she glanced at Tsukishima, raising thin eyebrows until he nodded and said, “I don’t care enough to tell anyone.”

She shook her head at him, _tsking,_ then reached under her table and pulled up what looked like a locking jewelry box. “Now,” she reached into her dress to pull out a tiny key and waved it at him, “you know this summer was very hot in Italy, bad growing conditions. Small harvest”—she beamed wickedly—“but I got a few.” She unlocked the box and held it out to him.

Kuroo felt his smile stretching, knowing what was in the box almost immediately. He peeled the lid back and sighed with pleasure. “Ah, you know just what I love.” He reached in to pluck one of the bumpy black things from the box. He brought it to his nose and inhaled, the deep earthy scent of the truffle filling his nose and releasing endorphins. “Mhm—this is wonderful.”

He held it up to Tsukishima’s face for him to smell and, instead of taking it, he cupped his fingers around Kuroo’s hand and ducked his head to smell it, closing his eyes and inhaling gently. It made Kuroo’s belly twist pleasurably, liking the feel of his long boned hands. “Does smell good,” Tsukishima said. “Almost like cocoa.”

Kuroo beamed, all the more enamored. “You’ve got a good sense of smell.”

Tsukishima dropped his hand and smiled back. “Truffles are a delicacy. Do you know how to use them?”

Kuroo scoffed, his chefs pride offended. “Of course I do. Better than you.”

The woman, Signora Cappellini, held her hand for it and Kuroo passed it back. “Now, now, you know I usually give you a deal…” She shook her head slowly, wiggling a finger after putting the truffle back into the box. “But with this I can not do that. Expensive, you see?”

Kuroo nodded. “Of course, madame, I wouldn’t expect anything less.” He leaned down to her, grinning. “What are you asking?”

Her smile broadened, showing a lack of a certain number of teeth. “Yooou devil, you.” She laughed. “You know what your handsome face does to me,” She reached up and pinched his cheek and he laughed, touching her hand. “The littlest one—ehh—I will go seventy. The biggest…? hundred and fifty. The others we can discuss.”

Kuroo nodded, that wasn’t bad, they weren’t very big after all, and opened the lid to look at them again. He picked three of the medium sized ones and smelled each one, felt the bumps and ridges that came from being cultivated from the soil, and they haggled until Kuroo handed her most of his cash and promised her he’d come back with the rest tomorrow. She trusted him, they had built up their vendor/buyer relationship for months, and he had never disappointed her.

As they were leaving almost two hours later, Kuroo cradling the truffles wrapped in a brown paper bag to his chest, Tsukishima asked, “You really do like food?”

“Duh!” Kuroo laughed. “I’m a chef.”

“There are some chefs who aren’t in it for the food. They think they can make money like all the celebrities on television.”

Kuroo shrugged. “If you don’t love long hours, not enough pay, and food, you aren’t a chef. You don’t deserve it. You have to love food to do this industry right.”

Tsukishima smiled faintly and Kuroo thought he had pleased the man. “I agree,” he said. “I like that you think that way. Especially since you promised me breakfast.”

“Ah, so you didn’t forget. What would you like?”

Tsukishima fiddled with his fingers as they waited at the crosswalk, thinking. Finally he glanced over at Kuroo and smiled. “Anything you’d like. I’d like to know what you cook when you’re given the freedom to create.”

Kuroo beamed. “You just want some of these truffles, don’t you?”

Tsukishima laughed, raising his shoulders in a _what can I say_ shrug. “It’s possible. But I’ll leave that up to you.”

Kuroo wanted to reach over and take his hand, feel the warmth of his fingers again, but he held tight to his truffles for fear of being rebuked. “How do you feel about crêpes?”

Tsukishima chuckled. “I like them…” he glanced over with a smirk that gave Kuroo tingles in his chest, “if you can do them right.”

“I lived in Paris for nine years,” Kuroo told him with indignation.

“That doesn’t mean you can make a crêpe,” Tsukishima pointed out.

Kuroo scoffed. “Tch, I can make a fucking crêpe, just you wait and see.”

 

* * *

 

The bakers were all at _je sais pas_ early, Yaku calling them to come in early to work on a wedding cake he’d been asked to do for a friend. He wanted intricate piping done and had Lev practicing his royal icing skills on parchment.

Leaning over the counter, Lev squinted at the blank parchment and touched his finger to the tip of the piping bag to clear it of hardening icing.

He didn’t know what to write, even though Yaku had instructed him to practice writing with the bag. He straightened, sighed, and drummed his free hand on the table. Then an idea struck him and he leaned over and wrote in large, looping letters.

“I’m done!” he called, and Yaku looked over from his mixer, lifting his chin to read the words.

Yaku scowled at it. “Any idiot can write _Happy Birthday._ Write something else.”

Lev huffed and, with a flourish, wrote: _Suck a dick._

Yaku snickered, shaking his head. “Careful,” he said with a sly smirk, “or you’ll regret those words.”

Lev grinned, but a trickle of heat simmered down his spine at his tone. Yaku had a way of making threats sound sexy. Probably because he himself was, and Lev found it hard to keep his hands off him during the workday. Last time he had touched Yaku ‘inappropriately’ in the kitchen he’d paid dearly for it in the evening. Yaku liked to teach _lessons_ to try and prevent Lev from misbehaving at work, and he was quite strict… but it was such a turn on Lev liked to push and see just how far he could take it.

Not far, as it turned out. It didn’t matter, Lev was a glutton for punishment.“Mori, can we go to your place tonight?”

Yaku turned his head to frown at him. “I’ve asked you not to call me that at work.”

“But you like it when I do.”

Yaku blushed high in his cheeks. “Shut up and get back to work.”

Lev liked the color on his cheeks, and was going to mention it, but then Suga came in, carrying a tray full of cake pans. “I got a few sizes,” he told Yaku, setting them down and separating them into piles. He placed several Styrofoam cake dummies on the counter as well. “And some foam rounds.”

“Thank you,” Yaku said, checking his batter again before leaving it to mix and picking through the pans. “It’s a small wedding so maybe only a two tier. Maybe three or four layers, though.”

“Should probably do a wider base then if you want to go tall. But,” Suga pointed out, “what about the tradition of keeping the top layer?”

Yaku hummed at that reminder. “Oh, that’s right. Then we’ll just do classic six, nine, twelve with three inch tall tiers.” Suga nodded his agreement and Yaku looked over to Lev, who was practicing his lacing and flooding. “You hear that, scrub?”

Lev looked up, accidentally squeezing the paper cone he was using and icing going everywhere. He yelped, dropping the bag and trying to clean it up with a scraper.

Yaku and Suga exchanged glances and Suga laughed, backing away. “My shift is over, good luck.” And he left the kitchen, chuckling to himself and pulling his jacket off.

Lev gathered up the ruined parchment and dumped it in the bin before going over to stand next to the mixer. “This looks done, Mori.”

Yaku came over, glanced in, and turned the mixer off. “Go make some parchment circles to line the pans with and get the release from the pantry.” He took a spoon and dipped it in the batter, tasting it and nodding to himself.

“Sure thing,” Lev said but as he was about to leave, he turned and saw the delicate back of Yaku’s neck exposed where he leaned over the mixer. Lev bowed down to press his lips to it, his nose tucked in Yaku’s soft chestnut hair.

Yaku shivered, stiffened, and at first Lev thought he’d gotten away with it… until Yaku turned. He was flushed red with embarrassment and anger.

Lev stepped back nervously, “I’ll go get that stuff now— _owwwww!”_

 

* * *

 

During lunch Kuroo nudged Yaku’s arm. “What happened with Lev’s hand?” Lev had a bandage wrapped around his palm and every now and then he would touch the bandage with his other hand, flinch, and lower both hands again with a frown.

Yaku looked over, snorted in derision, and shook his head, curling pasta around a fork and eating it. “I stabbed him with a spoon.”

Kuroo blinked, taken aback. “Huh?” He paused, glancing at Lev, and as concern for his employees poked at his mind he added, “Why did you stab him?” Then with more worry: “What did he do? Why a spoon?”

Yaku stabbed a piece of chicken. “He keeps disobeying me.”

Kuroo had seen the cut, and in confusion declared, “I don’t understand. Why a spoon? What could he possibly have done?”

“Listen,” Yaku snapped, “anything is possible when it comes to that idiot.” He said _idiot_ the way some people would say _cutie_ or _handsome_ or _lover._

“But how’d you get such a clean cut off of it?”

“When you do it hard enough anything will break.” Yaku stuck the chicken in his mouth and nodded curtly.

Kuroo blinked, stared at him, and leaned away. “You’ve gotten so violent since high school.”

“It’s only with him.”

With relief: “Thank God.”

Afterwards, Kuroo began to go over a plan for the tasting menu he was creating. It would be fourteen courses, hopefully with wine pairings, with plenty of varying flavors and textures. He wanted it to be magnificent, different, and innovative. “Kai,” he called. “Come here.” He straightened, looking over the food on the plate.

Kai looked up from his prep station and frowned. “ _Qu’est-ce que c’est?_ ”

“It’s my new appetizer.”

Kai’s face twisted into a disbelieving scowl, and he squinted at Kuroo like he was insane.

“ _Quoi?_ ” Kuroo asked, laughing. On the plate was a smear of green olive oil and lemon sauce, a homemade long brioche crouton oozing a white foam that was fluffy Parmesan cheese. Balanced on top was a piece of curved romaine lettuce, white and shining from being freshly washed. “ _C’est une salade,_ ” he beamed, ecstatic.

“ _C’est stupide._ ” Kai shook his head, “Caesar salad is perfect the way it is, leave it alone.” He paused, thinking. “You do not even have it on the menu. What is wrong with you, eh?”

Kuroo scoffed, waving a hand. “You’ve no brain for clever food.”

Kai frowned at him, shook his head, and walked away back to his station. “Bokuto!” Kuroo called, hoping that he would better take his side.

Bokuto didn’t even look up from his butchery of a large, sharp smelling flank of meat. “It’s a salad, bro, don’t be weird.”

Kuroo huffed. “You’re all simple!”

 

* * *

 

Suga went to unlock the back door, only to find that it was already unlocked. He frowned, worried—had the kitchen been open to vandals all night? Who would have left it unlocked? He went inside, locking the door behind him, and moved into the brightly lit kitchen, his nerves shooting through to his bladder, thinking he’d have to fight off vandals, or find all the expensive equipment that wasn’t nailed down gone and he’d have to call Kuroo and tell—

But there, folded onto a stool at the pass, looking like he’d grown roots there, was Kuroo. “Chef?” Suga asked, then again with more volume as he moved closer. “Are you alright?”

Kuroo looked like he was staring down the tunnel of a thirty six hour shift, two cups of coffee away from a nervous breakdown, eyes sunken and red, hair messy from his hands releasing their frustration, papers and notes stained with coffee and ink scattered about him. “Suga, what are you doing here?” Kuroo asked, genuinely confused.

“I’m starting my shift.”

Kuroo stared at him, then groaned. “Shit. Dammit. Are you serious?”

“Sure am.”

“I’ve gotten nothing done.” He swore again, and began dragging his papers into stacks, looking disgruntled. “The menu is eluding me. It has been for days.”

“Ah…” Suga watched him clean up, his hands shaking with jittery, nervous, exhausted energy. Suga knew the look of a man too strung out on caffeine to sleep no matter how many hours he’d been awake. Nearly every cook and _pâtisser_ had been there at some point or another. So he offered, “Do you want to help me bake?”

Kuroo turned to him, blank face slowly turning to a smile. “It’s been so long since I made bread,” he said with a longing sigh.

“It’s very therapeutic.”

“Sure, let me finish this up.”

Suga smiled then went to the locker room to change, taking his time pulling out the large rolling flour bins, collecting pitchers and scales and weights, hauling mountains of sheet pans and bowls and utensils from storage. By the time he was through and tying his apron, Kuroo was in the pastry shop fixing the red bandanna around his hair that kept it from falling in his eyes, still looking an absolute wreck, but a wreck with a purpose.

“I was thinking a maybe a hundred fifty baguettes, some sourdough, maybe seventy five wheat, some of that black Russian rye bread for that new bean soup thing you’re testing out.” Suga counted off his ideas on his fingers. “Maybe we can get pastry dough rising and Lev can come in and shape them… I don’t know, maybe some danishes or something?”

Kuroo nodded. “Sounds good. I trust you, I’m just here as an extra pair of hands.”

Suga grinned, pleased. It was a great honor to be trusted to make all the breads for _je sais pas,_ even more so to have the Head Chef let him simply do as he pleased as long as he made enough bread for the day. He could experiment even, strange combinations and new types of pastries, and Kuroo would put them on his daily specials menu to be sold before they went stale.

“I know you used to make French bread a lot, so why don’t you do that? We’ll start with maybe seventy pounds of flour and go from there?”

“You’re a madman, Suga.” Kuroo laughed.

“That’s why you hired me,” Suga told him, pulling out a large bowl hidden behind a curtain and heaving it onto the counter.

Kuroo chuckled as he ran the water at the filling station, temping it so that the yeast would be able to survive and thrive, then pouring them both in a large commercial mixer to begin their first ferment while he weighed out the flour. “How’s Exo?”

Suga peered into the bowl at the alive and bubbling mass of dough, poked it with a finger before cutting off chunks the size of his hand. “He’s still movin’ along, doing his thing.” Exo was Suga’s name for his sourdough starter—a bastardized version of the word _exorsus_ or something that he thought meant _beginnings_ or _starting_ or something of the sort. Some Latin word he had thought he’d heard in college when he’d originally made the dough. It had been through school, two kitchens, and nearly five years with him, and he had a fondness for the blob that was paramount to every other relationship he currently had, even Daichi, who’d he’d been dating for a little over a year and the dog Logan that they shared. He treated it like a treasured pet and everyone in the kitchen knew to never touch Exo or beware the wrath of Suga and his serrated bread knife.

“How big is he now?”

“Oh, I don’t know, twenty pounds?”

Kuroo let out a soft whistle. “Well, your sourdough is the best I’ve ever had so keep him happy, yeah?”

Suga nodded, draping towels over the dough chunks so they wouldn’t dry out, feeding Exo his daily meal of flour and water and covering him again to hide him in his special place under the counter. They worked in silence then, Kuroo falling back into his old Parisian ways of bread making learned at the hip of the masters, mixing until the dough was sticky then rolling it by hand, able to tell when the gluten was developed enough by the feel of the dough, the elastic firmness of it, the sheerness of a piece plucked from its parent and held to the light. He formed baguettes by muscle memory, rolling to a uniform length and laying them in the creases of proofing cloth, making thirty and then forty and then fifty and more loaves without stopping, losing himself in the work.

Suga did much the same, making mini boules by the feel of them, each of them within a gram or two of each other, confident that they were all nearly perfect even without scales. He mixed the dark and heavy smelling rye bread, one of his favorites because of the headiness of the flavor, dark and alluring on the palate, decadent when spread with honeyed butter. The wheat dough had the kitchen smelling of a farm, of the country and the summer sun.

It took hours even with two people, the proofing time staggered, the ovens humming along with heat, two of them taking occasional breaks to scrub sticky dough off the mixers and wash them by hand.

By the time six am rolled around, Kuroo wordlessly stepped from the kitchen, leaving Suga to crouch at the window of the tall oven, watching the bread as crusts formed and rose and sent delicious smells into the air. The exhaust from them burned his ankles, hurt his eyes, but he didn’t stop watching, whispering to the loaves as they bubbled, “Come on my darlings, you can do it. Almost there, here we go.” Everyone in kitchens talked to their food, whether they admitted to it or not, but bakers… bakers had to trust their foods as it did most of the work without the bakers able to do anything to change or stop them. They could only pray and whisper words of love to the ovens, the pans, the ingredients, coaxing them into action and deliciousness.

Just as Suga was pulling pans from the oven, stacking them into cooling racks and thanking them for their wonderful work, Kuroo came back in with two plates of seared ham and jiggling eggs. Suga plucked two steaming rolls from the racks, the calluses on his fingers from this very activity protecting them from the still hot crust. He sat opposite Kuroo at the front table, handing him a roll and opening his own, tearing it and smelling the steam that rose from the soft inside, pleased with the days work.

“Thanks for breakfast,” Suga told him, breaking the yolk of his egg and soaking it up with his bread. “It’s delicious.”

Kuroo nodded. “You’re welcome. I’m heading to the market after this. Want to come?”

“Shouldn’t you go get some sleep?”

“I’ll crash for a few hours when we get back.”

Suga knew that Kuroo would go with or without him, but he liked the market, liked the fresh fruits and the inspiration that came from them. “Sure,” he said. “Just let me get the bread racks stored before we go.”

“Breakfast first,” Kuroo said, tearing off a piece of ham.

Hours later, after the market, after the rest of the staff had come in, Suga found Kai and Bokuto at the pass going over the days menu. “Hey, guys,” he said, tucking his bag onto his shoulder. “You should know, Kuroo’s in the basement passed out on the flour sacks.”

Bokuto blinked at him for a moment, then laughed. “I thought he was late.”

Suga shook his head. “No… he hasn’t left since yesterday morning, I assume. We went to the market, but that’s it. I came in early for my shift and found him working on the tasting menu.”

Kai shook his head. “He is obsessive.”

“He’s passionate,” Suga amended, smiling gently. “Just let him sleep… then pick him up and stick some food in him before service.”

Bokuto leaned on the counter, glancing at the door to the basement. “Sure thing. Thanks, Suga. We got him.”

“Thanks. Good luck with service, make sure to serve the ice cream I made.”

“You made ice cream?” Bokuto grinned. “Where is it?”

“Freezer, of course, it’s a honey and blackberry mix. I think Yaku is going to make some sort of tart to go with it, too.”

“Mhm—I might have to taste it before it goes out.” Bokuto beamed like a child, excited at the thought of extravagant desserts, glancing towards the freezer door.

“Just don’t eat it all.” Suga waved as he left, letting the door close behind him.

 

* * *

 

Bokuto walked to the bar where Akaashi worked, smoking his third cigarette in as many minutes. Kuroo had been half mad tonight. After they dragged him from the basement he’d done his job like he was supposed to, sending the plates and finishing service, then Kai had taken him home to put him to bed.

Bokuto had seen people on the edge of a breakdown—but Kuroo’s madness had happened really fast, barely a few days since he’d gotten the email about the critic coming back. He’d spiraled hard, which meant that the revisit meant more to him than he was letting on. It bothered Bokuto, as indicated by his elevated need for cigarettes, the thought of quitting them a far flung memory now. He wanted this to go well, too. He just couldn’t help make it go that way other than doing his own job perfectly.

He dropped the last one at the door of the bar and stepped inside, winding his way through the crowd to the bar, and, to his surprise, finding Alec there. “Hey,” he leaned halfway over the wood, “know where Akaashi is?”

Alec looked up, shrugged, passing a few beers to patrons. “Nope. He’s called off working tonight. For the next few days, actually. Guess he got a better job. Good thing there are others here who actually want money,” he said bitterly, probably mad that he was having to work a double.

“Oh.” Bokuto frowned at the sharpness of his tone. “Okay, cool. Thank you.” He left as quickly as he had come in, and did his best to not light another cigarette as he made it outside, leaning against the wall and calling Akaashi.

There was no answer. Either he was asleep or he was ignoring Bokuto again.

He sighed, he hated when Akaashi ignored him. Every now and then Akaashi wouldn’t answer his calls for a day or two, and Bokuto was getting very frustrated with the treatment. It only made him need another cigarette on his way to the corner to hail a cab.He was walking into his apartment when his phone rang and he saw it was Akaashi calling.

“Hey,” Bokuto said into the phone. “I hope I didn’t wake you—”

“No,” Akaashi mumbled into the line, his voice thick. “I’m awake.”

Bokuto paused upon hearing the tears caught in Akaashi’s throat, and panicked. It was three in the morning, but he could still make it over to his place in forty five minutes at the most. “What’s wrong? I can be over there—”

“No,” Akaashi said quickly, then coughed on his snot. “No, don’t. I’m not home. Just…” he muttered, swallowed hard. “Just stay on the phone with me? I’m on my way home.”

Bokuto felt sick. Akaashi was practically sobbing into the phone and Bokuto wasn’t there to hold him or comfort him. “Wait… you’re not walking home?”

“Of course I am… what else would I be doing?”

“It’s New York City. It’s dangerous.”

Akaashi scoffed. “That’s why I’m on the phone with you. Keep me safe, okay?”

Bokuto blinked and leaned against his door, sliding down to a sitting position, phone pressed to his ear. “Yeah… okay…Tell me what happened.”

Akaashi muttered, “I’d rather not, tell me about your day.”

Bokuto knocked his fist into his leg, frustrated at how secretive Akaashi was. He knew Akaashi had problems—hell, everyone had problems. No reason to keep them all so damn close. “No, Keiji, you’re upset. Talk to me.”

“I don’t want to. Please… not now.” His voice was going soft, sounding hollowed out.

So Bokuto gave in and told him every tiny little detail about his day. How he went early to the gym to get his workout in before Hinata showed up. Hinata’s workouts were going well, he had a ton of stamina and his legs were the strongest part of his body and Bokuto had been impressed. He told Akaashi how he and Kai had found Kuroo curled up like a cat on the sacks of flour and had to carry him upstairs, force coffee down his throat, and practically slap him awake. No actual slapping was involved, even though Yaku tried. The service had been wild, people yelling back and forth, Kuroo dropping several dishes and no one saying a thing, just making another plate on the fly. No plates had come back from the dining room, at least. It took a long time, Bokuto hearing traffic pass by in the background, and, after a while, he heard Akaashi unlock his front door and make his way upstairs to his bedroom. When he was through, having told Akaashi about his short trip to the bar and his long taxi ride home, Akaashi was sitting quietly on the other end. “And, now,” Bokuto said, “I’m talking to you on the phone.”

“Mhm… thank you. I’m home now…”

“Good.” Bokuto paused, picking at the stray strings on his pants, tugging at them even though he knew he shouldn’t. “Do you want to tell me what happened, now?”

“No. I’m going to go, though. I need to sleep.”

Bokuto was quiet, stomach churning with acid. “I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t. Really, I’m fine. See you later,” he said, a hardness to his voice that Bokuto hadn’t heard before, and then hung up before Bokuto could reply or beg for information.

Bokuto scowled at the blank screen and gripped it hard, trying not to hurl it into the wall. Instead, he banged his head into the door. Something was wrong with Akaashi and he refused to confide in Bokuto. It was both upsetting and infuriating, and Bokuto wanted to go over there right now and find out what happened so he could figure out how to fix it. Akaashi refused to confide in him and it was distressing to him because Bokuto was a protector, a provider—he wanted everything to be perfect with Akaashi, and if it wasn’t, he wanted to make it that way.

But he was exhausted. His head was spinning, he could barely keep his eyes open. He had to sleep. He hoped, on the other side of the city, that Akaashi was doing the same. Maybe tomorrow all would be better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French Translations:
> 
> À plus tard - see you later  
> Qu’est-ce que c’est? - What is it?  
> Quoi? - what?  
> C’est une salade - it's a salad  
> C’est stupide - it's stupid.


	13. sustaniable

Tsukishima sat sipping coffee at his desk and watching his cat. She sat in the window, purring softly, her eyes slitted with contentment, the sunlight baking her fur to warmth. He reached over, brushing his knuckles over her head, causing her to open her wide cerulean eyes and stare at him. He pulled his hand away, sighing, frustrated, aggravated with her. With himself.

He’d gotten her only three months ago, had plucked her from a shelter, brought her home and loved her with all he had, but she didn’t love him back. Not really. She would let him pet and hold her, but she didn’t seem to really like him, and the problem had only been exacerbated when she had walked across the ledge seven stories high to his neighbor, Kuroo Tetsurou, and attached herself to him like a magnet.

She loved him.

And he, apparently, loved her, making her cat food and buying her toys and holding her like a baby—she even allowed him to stroke her furry belly—and she’d never allowed Tsukishima to do that. He leaned his cheek on his fist, half glaring at her. “You’re unfair, you know that? I’m the one that saved you. Not him.”

Cera stopped purring to look up at him, staring him down until he looked away and sipped his coffee again, pretending to not be hurt by a cat. Suddenly, she sat up, her ears flicking, and she let out a rumbling, purr filled meow as she leapt off the window ledge and padded out of the room towards the front door. Moments later he heard a steady, three tone knock at the door. Tsukishima made a face to himself… he was back.

Opening the door, he found he was right. Kuroo stood there, tall and dark haired, gray eyes alive with humor as he smiled.

“Hello,” he said, propping an elbow on the door frame and leaning just inside. “Long time no see.” Cera purred at his feet and Kuroo crouched to pick her up so he could cradle her against his shoulder and scratch her ears.

Tsukishima kept his face carefully collected, even though being this close to the other man made butterflies flutter in his belly…and seeing how much Cera liked him made him a little mad, since he could never get her to purr like that for him. “I saw you on Saturday.”

“And now it’s Monday.” Kuroo grinned, teeth straight and white. “It’s been a few days.” He inclined his head forward. “Do you have any plans today?”

Tsukishima pursed his lips, unsure where this was going. “My answer will depend on what your plans are for today, I think.”

“And do you have a car?”

“Of course I have a car. Why?”

“I’d like to take you somewhere really cool.”

So… they took his car, Tsukishima driving out of the crowded, canyon like avenues of the city and into the wide open fields of the country. “I can’t believe you dragged me out here.”

Kuroo had the passenger seat pushed as far back as it would go so he could prop his long legs up on the dashboard, even though Tsukishima glared at him when he did it. After a while, Tsukishima stopped glaring and Kuroo kept his position, leaning back in the seat and tapping on his phone.

“You’ll like it, I promise. Have you ever been out this far?”

“Yes and no,” Tsukishima said. “Not this far upstate, but I’ve traveled around the country enough to have seen fields before.”

“Ever been to a working farm?”

“…No.”

“Ah! Good.” Kuroo grinned, looking over at him. “Then this will be fun.”

“Wait, you’re taking me to a farm?”

“I’m taking you to an experiment,” Kuroo said, voice dropping a bit so that Tsukishima had to strain to hear him over the car engine. “Someone introduced me to him when I got back to New York last year and I haven’t had the time to go back and visit since I opened the restaurant. But we email, and he’s asked me to come down to look at some crops and bring home some stuff he’s prepared for me.”

Tsukishima glanced over at him. “Why did you drag me along, then?”

“To show you where food comes from,” Kuroo said simply, looking up and smiling at him.

Tsukishima rolled his eyes. “I know where—”

Kuroo cut him off with a finger held in the air like a conductor. “But do you understand where it comes from?”

“The ground,” Tsukishima said snappishly, annoyed.

“Nature,” Kuroo told him, rather emphatically. “Not just the ground or the bushes or the trees, but _nature.”_

Tsukishima shook his head, hands on the wheel, fingers curled around the base, “You’re weird.”

Laughing, Kuroo shrugged, and rolled down his window, leaning his head out the car and smiling. “Ahh… smell that fresh summer breeze.”

 

* * *

 

Two hours, many miles, and a quarter tank of gas later they drove down a long dirt driveway, the fields on either side of them opening out in golden waves of wheat and oceans of green plants weaving their way across the land. Tsukishima could smell the earth here, smell the musk of dirt and the sweetness of water trickling down a river somewhere unseen. The atmosphere was open and infinite, and as Tsukishima stepped from the car in front of a large blue field house, he thought that maybe he might understand why Kuroo was so adamant to come here, to the middle of nowhere, on a whim, with half a stranger in tow.

The farm was lovely. Large, bumbling cows roamed in a pasture to their right, some coming curiously to the fence to see who these strangers were. Chickens and goats could be heard clucking and bleating from somewhere far away. Fields of plants exploded down their left. Tsukishima recognized the long, low, leafy cucumbers, large bulbous heads of cabbage, the dense disaster area of half wild strawberries, and the tall reaching leaves of corn stalks soaking up the sun. There were many more, but he couldn’t point out what they were just from a glance. It was hot out, the sun beating down, so blistering that sweat immediately began to roll down the back of Tsukishima’s neck. He wanted to crawl back into the car and crank the air on high.

But here came a man, tall and broad, with short dark hair and a businesslike walk, tramping across the drive towards them. Several dogs danced around him, agile, bounding herding dogs with long fur and delicate noses, and smaller more compact dogs, waddling along with purpose as their shorter legs tried to keep up.

Tsukishima wasn’t a fan of dogs. It must have shown on his face because the man gave a shrill whistle through his teeth and the dogs stopped in their tracks, tails wagging, tongues lolling, and waited, watching the man like he was God. He was, Tsukishima supposed, in this plot of land that belonged to him.

Kuroo unfolded himself from the other side of the car and moved around the front, one arm extended in greeting. “Ushiwaka! Such a pleasure to see you again.”

The man took his hand and nodded. “Kuroo.” His eyes cast over to Tsukishima, still standing half in and half out of the car. “You brought someone?”

“Yes!” Kuroo smiled, beckoning him forward. “This is my good friend and neighbor, Tsukishima Kei. I brought him to keep me company on the long drive.”

“I am Ushijima Wakatoshi,” the man said in a low, rich baritone, shaking Tsukishima’s hand firmly. His palm was hot on Tsukishima's, and he noticed the stark difference between his own delicate, thin writers hands and the rough calluses that littered Ushijima's palms.

“Nice to meet you,” Tsukishima said.

Ushijima stepped back, waving an open palm towards the fields. “Kuroo, would you like to see what I’ve been working on for you? I think you will be pleased.”

Kuroo beamed. “Absolutely.”

They embarked across the lawn, the dogs swarming up, barking and leaping circles around the group of men as though they were a star exerting gravity on the dogs. They dispersed as the men crossed into the crop fields, stepping carefully over rows of carrots and cabbages as Ushijima spoke about how they were cultivating them, plucking samples from the ground and handing them to the two men, Kuroo ripping them open and smelling the insides like they were freshly baked bread instead of unwashed cabbages. He asked about how the crops were growing, when they had sprung from the earth, if he could bring some home with him. And Kuroo wondered aloud if Ushijima could begin breeding different kinds of melons and cucumbers, flushing out the water from them so that the flavor was more pronounced.

The talk moved to more scientific aspects of growing crops—which crops would replenish the nutrients taken from the soil by the summer crops, which fields would be used, all the things that an organic farmer like Ushijima could talk about for hours and hours, and Kuroo, a dedicated chef who loved the birth of food, would listen to until the sun went down and came up again. Tsukishima listened, understanding much of what was said only because they spoke in simple terms for him, trying to keep him politely in the conversation.

“We like to keep the crops rotated so that they create the perfect microbiological home for every new crop that is planted each season,” Ushijima explained, speaking slowly and clearly, reaching down and scooping a hand full of warm, moist dirt and poking through it with his finger as if he could see the nutrients there. “You have to replenish the soil, not just take and take and take, you know?” Tsukishima nodded, so Ushijima continued, “The more life, the more organisms in the earth at the time of planting, the more potential you have for the creation of flavor. The soil will make flavor for you, using all the components of the earth at its disposal.” He spoke with an intense, gentle passion, letting the soil drop through his fingers.

Kuroo was smiling, the science of crops exciting him. “Since carrots are very nutrient hungry crops, you’ll have to plant something next season that will replenish as much as possible. Peas or legumes. Potatoes, maybe.” He waved a hand to Ushijima for confirmation, who nodded.

Ushijima pointed a hand towards the cows. “We will move their pasture to where the carrots are now, or let them pasture there for a while in between the hay supplements. They can replenish the nutrients and we can plant new crops there next spring.”

Tsukishima nodded. “Fascinating. I didn’t realize so much thought went into crops.”

“I do not like the chemicals most people put on them these days,” Ushijima said. “It would be easier… to use them, to let them make the nutrients instead of the plants, but it does not taste as good.”

Kuroo played with a strawberry in his palm, the tiny seeds on the outside falling into the creases of skin. “That’s why we get along so well, Ushiwaka, neither of us like that chemical taste of the product.” He looked over at Tsukishima, eyebrow raised in question. “Do you know what I mean? That almost metallic taste you sometimes get from mass produced produce?”

Tsukishima thought back to some of the meals he’d eaten at restaurants and produce he’d gotten from large scale grocery markets, and—yes, if he really thought about it, he thought he could remember that weird flavor—the consistent _offness_ of vegetables that spanned over many different families of crops. “I think so.”

The two seemed pleased that he agreed with them and Ushijima plucked several strawberries from the vine and handed them to Tsukishima to eat, which he did with glee, as they made their way towards the end of the field. Kuroo nibbled on the end of a strawberry and asked, “What about those peppers we were emailing about? Have you managed to make the eggs?”

Tsukishima frowned, not understanding what the two had to do with one another. Kuroo saw the confusion on his face and said, “Peppers and chickens naturally go together. Chickens have much less taste buds than humans, so they can’t taste the spiciness of peppers, the capsaicin that burns our mouths. So we can purée peppers and all sorts of things to feed to the chickens, and Ushiwaka has been breeding hotter and more pure peppers, so that the eggs come out colored and with the flavor of the peppers, but not the heat. Does that make sense?”

Tsukishima stepped carefully over a strawberry plant and Ushijima closed the gate behind them as they left the field. “I suppose. But why would you want to do that?”

Kuroo laughed as Ushijima said, “When you stop pushing boundaries, you will lose the passion. We must always be creating.”

Tsukishima smiled as Kuroo nodded emphatically. “Precisely why we get along so well, Ushiwaka.”

“But yes,” Ushijima said, “the eggs are coming along well. Come and see.” He took them towards a large coop, bigger than Tsukishima had seen on television and in movies. He went around back and pulled open a large wooden slab and the warm, musky scent of the chickens came wafting out. It wasn’t unpleasant, just different, and Tsukishima found himself inching closer to see inside: the bundles of grass shavings and hay, hens clucking and turning their heads in shock at the light, several of them ruffling up their feathers and shaking them out. Tiny bundles of little brown eggs were tucked in the nests and Ushijima reached in and took handfuls, his large hands able to easily hold six or seven at a time, passing handfuls to Tsukishima and Kuroo to carry.

Tsukishima carefully held two palm fulls of eggs against his stomach so he wouldn’t drop them as they made their way towards the large blue barn and the small house that stood in its shadow. The dogs were back, little ones sniffing at their heels and the herding dogs bounding circles. Tsukishima marveled at how warm the eggs were, and their color, a pale tawny brown, and wondered how much different these eggs would taste from the bleached white, anemic looking eggs from the supermarket.

They crowded inside Ushijima’s tiny cottage home, and Tsukishima noticed how rural the place felt. It was all hardwood and plush armchairs, knitted blankets and that home grown, cinnamon and pine smell that lingered in cabins. Ushijima showed them to the kitchen and took the eggs to place them in a large basket. Kuroo kept one of his and when Ushijima offered him a bowl, cracked the egg expertly with one hand into it. He sniffed the contents and smiled, inexorably pleased. “Ah, good work Ushiwaka, you can smell the sweet peppers.”

Ushijima nodded, but his pleasure was less obvious, and his brow furrowed in thought. “I want the color to be more pronounced.”

“That would be nice,” Kuroo said, and stuck his finger in the softly tinted red yolk and broke it, spreading the pinkish hue into the whites of the eggs and swirling it around before sticking it in his mouth.

Tsukishima was appalled. “Aren’t you worried about salmonella?”

“The chili and the spice of their diet actually is a natural antibacterial for the chickens,” Ushijima explained when Kuroo only grinned like an imp at him. “It’s not fool-proof, of course, but the chickens’ intestines fight off the capsaicin, which in turn will kill off many of the bacteria that cause salmonella.”

Tsukishima frowned. “Is it enough?”

Kuroo shrugged. “Eh, maybe. People drink raw eggs for protein all the time, and eat raw cookie dough, shit like that—” He glanced at Ushijima when he said _shit—_ “Sorry, dude. But yeah,” he turned back to Tsukishima, “I’m not worried.” And with that he drank the egg yolk with a smack of his lips.

 

* * *

 

Later, they all stood around the dairy cows in the barn, Ushijima talking about the veal they were raising because it was a necessity that came from also having a dairy business. “The male calves are usually treated very badly.” His face looked sad, as if the thought of what most veal in the industry went through really truly pained him. “They are stolen from their mothers side, fed junk and bad things, then they get sick because they are pumped full of antibiotics.”

Kuroo ran his hand over the side of one of the calves while it suckled from it’s mother. The barn they were in was high lofted, with milking apparatuses carefully stored above where the mother cows ate fresh hay. “That’s why a lot of the veal you eat in restaurants is totally white. They’re weak and anemic, it’s absolutely cruel.” He patted the calf, smiling at it, his face going soft. “It’s better to raise them with care, keep them on their mother’s milk. Raising them humanely produces flavor.”

Tsukishima grimaced. He knew what veal was… but it was different actually seeing the young calf in front of him. “Why not just sell them or something?”

“The veal industry won’t go away as long as male cows are being born. Selling them to veal farms ensures pain all their short lives. At least if we raise and slaughter them humanely, we can ensure that we don’t make the industry worse,” Ushijima said.

Tsukishima reached out and ran a hand along the cow closest to him, feeling the heat of the animal over the soft skin, the strength of the bone and muscle underneath, and marveling at the beast.

“Kuroo!” Someone called from the door of the barn, coming in and walking the length of the barn with long, quick strides. “Hey, there you are. Been a long time.” The man was tall, lanky, his crimson red hair spiked high and a wide, broad grin on his face. “Oh, you have a friend today?” The man stood comfortably close to Ushijima, their arms brushing, his hands in the back pockets of his tattered overalls.

Kuroo nodded to the newcomer. “Hey, Tendou, how are you? This is my friend, Tsukishima.”

Tendou raised his chin to Tsukishima. “Sup?”

Tsukishima laughed softly. “Hello.”

Minimum greetings exchanged, Tendou turned his attention back to Kuroo. “You want some comb? I’ve got a bunch of it packaged up.”

“Really? I’d love a few jars.”

Tendou’s smile widened with glee. “Come on, come on, then,” he said and turned on his toes, bouncing a little as he walked back towards the opening of the barn.

Ushijima smiled, a minuscule upturning of the corners of his lips, and nodded to Kuroo and Tsukishima as Kuroo waved to him. They followed Tendou to another building, a small shed tucked against the corner of the outer storage area. Inside the new shed there were several large stainless steel barrels, pipes against the walls, large square boxes humming away in the corner, and shelves lined with jars and jars of golden brown honey. Tendou took a canvas sack from a drawer and carefully stacked several of the largest jars inside it.

“How are your hives?” Kuroo asked, glancing inside one of the barrels and smiling around at the place.

“Oh, good, good. One of them wanted to swarm so we had to add a new box at the other side of the field and put them in it. They’ve taken to it, though, so now I’ve got”—he paused, thinking, his thin, nimble fingers twitching as he counted—“sixteen hives.”

Fascinated and appalled, Tsukishima asked, “Honey bees?”

“Where do you think all this came from?” Tendou smirked at him then his whole being shifted when he saw Tsukishima’s face, turning on him and seeming to rise several inches in indignation. “Why are you making that face?”

Tsukishima shifted on his feet as both sets of sharp, attentive eyes turned to him. “Uh… I don’t like insects, really. That’s all.”

Tendou handed the bag filled with honey jars over to Kuroo and leaned toward Tsukishima, hands on his hips, voice loud in the small space, “What’s wrong with honeybees?” And when Tsukishima stammered, not really getting any words out, he continued, “Honey bees give us nearly everything we eat! Do you know that one in three bites you take, at some point, all are influenced by bees? Bees make all our food, coffee, and wheat and alfalfa, which is used to feed cows! So bees keep the beef industry alive, too! Do you drink coffee?” He leaned even closer, squinting one eye and snapping, “Of course you do, you look like a coffee drinker. Do you know where that coffee bean comes from?”

“Uh—”

“Bees! Honeybees pollinate and allow the bean to grow! You smell like strawberries, do you like strawberries? Well guess what, bees pollinate strawberries, too. We can use their products for food, for candles, for health benefits, beer and mead, and even to fight cancer! So don’t you say you don’t like bees, _glasses,_ you got me?”

Tsukishima blinked, dumbfounded, and took a step backwards, adjusting his glasses. “Sorry,” he said quietly, a bit annoyed at the outburst. He knew all this, of course! He wasn’t saying he wanted all bees dead, just that he didn’t want to walk through a swarm of them.

Tendou squinted at him, then whipped away suddenly, snatching up a jar from a shelf. “Here, Kuroo, try this.” He opened the jar, with a bit of effort as the honey had crystallized and made the lid stick to the threads, and passed it over. He pointed to a small jar of tiny wooden popsicle sticks and Kuroo plucked three of them out, passed one to each of the others, then took a scoop of the amber honey from the jar. He held it to the light coming in through the window, smiling at the gleam it made and the tiny crystals visible hanging suspended.

Tsukishima took a tiny blob from the jar and pressed it to his tongue. He was what many would call a super taster, which meant he had a remarkable memory for taste and an abnormally high sensitivity to flavors. Because of this, sometimes certain foods were almost painful to him, like broccoli and vinegar. He had known of his sensitivity at a young age and had worked his entire life to train his taste buds so that he could detect flavors even through overwhelming bitterness or sweetness. So he was able to smell the sweetness of grass on the honey, and his immediate reaction upon tasting it wasn’t sweet but rather the fruity, bright flavor of the strawberries, the freshness of the greens from the fields and the musk of the maple trees that surrounded the farm, and even, as an aftertaste, an almost bitter taste from what he would only think of as stagnant water that the bees must have drank during their foraging.

Kuroo’s palate wasn’t as sensitive as Tsukishima’s but still he smiled. “I can taste the fields in this.”

Tendou beamed, leaning his hip against one of the tables and dipping his own stick into the jar. “Mhm-hmm. I’m hoping they’ll make honey from the rye Wakatoshi is going to plant in the fall.”

Kuroo glanced at Tsukishima, grinning, excited like a kid just given a large present. “That’d be awesome!” He leaned on the table beside Tendou, drumming his fingers on the jar in thought. “Really lovely color, yeah? Like pure gold.”

“Mhm-hmm, yes. It would taste like rye, too.”

“Wouldn’t that be… almost sour?” Tsukishima asked, remembering the taste of rye bread baked on the hearth at a local Jewish bakery he used to go to when he was younger.

They both looked at him and Kuroo shrugged. “Sometimes you need a honey that’s less sweet. I could get some from Semi”—he waved a hand, explaining quickly: “He’s a beekeeper in the city, has lots of hives all around on rooftops and stuff. Oh! But if I get some jars from all the different boroughs from him then I could make a whole dish about the different nuances of honey.” His eyes were alight with joy, and Tsukishima could almost literally see the fire of creativity spark in them, then the wheels beginning to churn as he already tried to plan this new dish in his head.

Suddenly, Tsukishima wanted nothing more than to taste it. He wanted to know what this Kuroo would do. He’d seen him playfully make omelets and crêpes in his kitchen, but this Kuroo standing in front of him was a different creature. And it made Tsukishima, irrationally, want to kiss him and see if he could feel the fire of invention on his tongue. He stopped himself, obviously, he was better in control of himself than that, but it didn’t stop his imagination from exploring the idea.

Tendou was smiling at them both, glancing between them, then carefully took the jar from Kuroo’s fingers. “If you do, be sure to invite Wakatoshi and me for a taste. He’d like that.”

 

* * *

 

As the sun touched the horizon, Tsukishima and Kuroo made their way back towards the close confines of the city. Tsukishima was not usually one for being outdoors but he had really liked the farm, enjoyed the fresh smell of the air and the calming presence of nature surrounding him on all sides.

Kuroo had spent most of the drive on his phone, every now and then staring out the window, not seeing the trees and telephone poles whizzing by, instead retreating inside his own mind, silently creating something in his own mind.

“Are you planning something for your restaurant?”

Kuroo looked over at him, leaned his head against the headrest. “Mhm-hmm. I always get inspired around nature. I want to bring nature to the plate. I want to make the food delicious for what it is.”

Tsukishima smiled. “You don’t like all that fancy gastronomic stuff going on these days?”

“It’s not that.” Kuroo laughed. “I like all that stuff: foams and gels and liquid nitrogen. It’s great, it’s fun, it’s unique because it brings out lots of weird flavors that you can’t normally get otherwise. But, for the most part, I like keeping to the roots.” He paused, tapping a nail on his phone screen in thought. “I’ve got to make this menu…” His voice trailed off in thought.

“Oh?”

“Mhm… I’m making a tasting menu for someone. For a season, I guess. I’ve wanted to do one for a while, but there was something that happened recently… and I’ve got an opportunity to come up with my own voice for the first time. I want to make a good impression… not only for this person, but because their voice in the culinary world is vast and they can help make myself and my restaurant a bigger name in the city, where it’s hard to make a name at all.”

Tsukishima hummed. “So you want to use them to get your name out?”

“Not like that, no.” Kuroo sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I want to impress them. I made a mistake the last time they dined at my restaurant… and I want to correct it. I have my pride, after all.”

Tsukishima smiled, glancing in the side mirror so the tilt of his face would hide it from Kuroo. “I see. So, what’s your plan?”

“I want to show food: fruits, vegetables, meat, cheeses, everything. I don’t want to hide it. I want to have an exhibition of how… if we can go back to nature, back to our roots, and…” He inhaled slowly, trying to speak the thoughts in his head and speaking slower because of it. “The dish can never be better than the produce, and if we can amplify the natural flavors without having to disguise them… I think that is dining in it’s most perfect form. Loving food for the sake of food and the ways it can bring the community together, not just as a way to sustain our bodies.”

Tsukishima smiled to himself, glancing over to see just how excited and soft Kuroo’s face had become when he was imagining his dream, and the butterflies heated up in Tsukishima’s belly. Damn it, he was falling for this wonderfully bright burning creative creature that was sitting beside him.


	14. cassé

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _IMPORTANT NOTE: READ BEFORE CONTINUING_**  
>  In this chapter begins our journey into Akaashi's struggles. Things come out in the open. Some things are suggested... others are not. Because I know how much of a sensitive topic these things are, I am going to list them here. I tell my readers this not to scare off readers... but to warn them. I don't want to sweep Akaashi's problems under the rug, either. Things will be dealt with... in one way or another. 
> 
> Things mentioned in this chapter and off and on throughout the rest of the fic: eating disorders, purging, depression, remnants of self harm, sexual trauma, and PTSD.

During the same time Kuroo and Tsukishima were at the farm, Bokuto and Akaashi were wandering a park full of naked people.

“This is so cool,” Bokuto said, gazing around and sucking powdered sugar off his fingers, remnants of his funnel cake. Akaashi made a face at him before Bokuto apologized and wiped his hands on his pants.

The sun was high and warm, beaming down waves of sunlight over the park and the people in it. It was the body painting festival. Artists and models milled about, some painting, some being painted. Bokuto turned slowly, eyes widening as he saw naked women sprawled on top of piles of fruit and furs, several artists leaning over them and painting them to blend into their surroundings.

Akaashi smiled beside him, for once in a thin, colorful loose tank top and tight red shorts instead of his usual sweaters. He still had chills crawl up his arms sometimes, and Bokuto would tuck him against his side when he noticed, but anytime he commented on it Akaashi would glare at him.

“I thought you’d like it,” Akaashi said. “You like naked people.”

“I think every man likes naked people.” Bokuto laughed.

Akaashi took a small bottle of sanitizer from his pocket and made Bokuto wipe his hands with it before they could hold hands again. Bokuto had learned that Akaashi had a weird thing about germs—he didn’t like eating after people, nor drinking from the same straw or place on the rim of a cup. His peculiarities weren’t necessarily bound in fact since he knew very well that simply using a different straw or spoon didn’t protect him from germs, and he liked kissing—liked it a lot—but Bokuto didn’t mind that particular oddness of his boyfriend. He minded the secrecy. It had been almost a week since the phone call where Akaashi had practically sobbed into the phone while explaining nothing, expecting Bokuto to ignore the tears and go on as if nothing were wrong. Bokuto had asked him time and time again what had been wrong, until Akaashi had told him to drop it, or he would replace all the kosher salt in the house with table salt and refuse to let Bokuto cook for them any longer.

Bokuto was upset about it. Akaashi knew he was, too, but didn’t seem inclined to worry overmuch.

“It’s not sexual though,” Akaashi was saying, taking Bokuto’s hand and pulling him through a stream of people. “It’s actually a good way to make money.”

“You’ve done this?” Bokuto was shocked, but pleasantly so. He liked the idea of Akaashi naked and painted up like a Van Gogh or Picasso landscape. “Isn’t being naked weird in front of strangers?”

Akaashi shook his head. “Not after you get used to it. Besides, with all the people and the lights and the cameras, it’s not sexual at all, like I said. It’s like a chore, honestly.” His phone chimed again, buzzing insistently and he dug it out of his pocket with a frustrated sigh to decline the phone call.

Bokuto couldn’t see who it was that tried to call, but he recognized the shape of the caller ID was the same one that it had been all day. “Who is that?”

“No one,” Akaashi said too quickly, voice low and annoyed.

“Oh, so a ghost is calling you?”

Akaashi flicked an annoyed glare at him. “It’s someone I don’t want to talk to or about. I tried to tell him I don’t want to talk to him anymore but he won’t leave me alone.”

Bokuto frowned, the protective instinct that ran deep in him bubbling under his skin, making his fists curl and his chest open up, inhaling oxygen to prepare for a fight. “Do I need to talk to him for you? I can be quite persuasive.”

Akaashi smiled a very small, very nervous smile. “No, Bokuto. It’s fine. I’ll just ignore him. Come on, there’s a contest going on.”

Bokuto took Akaashi’s hand, squeezing his fingers gently. “For artists or models?”

“For artists.” He glanced over his shoulder, grinning. “Did you wear underwear?”

Bokuto balked. “Of course I did!” He paused, then added with a smile, “Why, should I take them off?”

“No, but I think you should go be a model. All you have to do is stand still.”

“Only if you do it, too.”

Akaashi shrugged, saying easily, “Sure.”

“But,” Bokuto said quickly, “don’t get naked. I couldn’t handle that.”

“I told you, I don’t think it as a sexual—”

“You don’t,” Bokuto promised him in a grave tone, “but we’ve been dating for, what, a month or whatever? and I still haven’t seen your dick so… might make my job of being still a bit difficult.”

Akaashi stopped in his tracks to stare at him, the faux sapphires in his ears glittering in the sun. “You’re a pervert.”

“Only for you.”

“God.” Akaashi shook his head, exasperated but laughing. “Come on. I’ve got a friend who would love to paint on you.”

So, ten minutes later, Bokuto stood shirtless in the middle of a small booth, the sun hot on his skin, watching Akaashi pull his tank top off and wishing he could go over and lick the back of his neck to see if his skin tasted the same as his mouth.

Thank God he wore his loose jeans today, and that the artist friend of Akaashi’s didn’t need him to take them off.

The blonde woman was mixing paints in tiny mason jars, making the large black and orange dragon tattooed on her arm shift as if it were flying across her skin. “So, what’s your name? I’m Saeko, by the way. Akaashi is horrible at introductions.”

Akaashi looked up, grimacing at being called out. “Sorry.”

Bokuto smiled at the woman. “Bokuto, nice to meet you.”

She took his hand with her free one, then turned his hand over so she could see the inside of his wrist where he had the fork, knife, and spoon outlined in black ink. “Oh! You’ve got tattoos!”

“Is that a problem?”

“No, no, I’m a tattoo artist, actually. I think it’s awesome.” She beamed at him, showing him her arm. “If you ever want more, let me know! Akaashi knows where my shop’s at.”

Bokuto beamed, glancing over at him as he kicked off his shoes and hiked himself up onto a table, shirtless. The sight of his ribs and the juts of his hip bones above his shorts, more prominent than they should have been, made Bokuto want to take Akaashi to the restaurant to feed him. “You’ve got tattoos?”

“No.” Akaashi waved a hand. “I don’t want to get any because of my modeling, it’s just easier that way. But I admire her artwork.”

Saeko winked at him. “Thanks, doll. Now,” she turned to Bokuto, pointing her brush at him, “I’m going to turn you into a garden.”

Bokuto smiled nervously. “He looks better in flowers than I do.”

“Nonsense.” Saeko grinned, lining up colored jars on the table and plucking brushes from the apron at her hip. “You’re beautiful. Besides, Akaashi will be the snake in the garden.”

“Oh?” Akaashi smiled. “What part _exactly_ are you going to paint on my body, Saeko, hm?”

She laughed, a loud, boisterous sound that carried across the busy park. “No! I’ll paint your arm, dummy. And you’ll stand behind him and”—she moved behind Bokuto, sticking her arm under his and spreading her palm across his chest—“Like that.”

Bokuto tingled inside at the closeness of another human touching him, glancing with raised eyebrows at Akaashi. _Goddamn he missed sex._

Saeko pulled away, picking up a large brush and dipping it in a dark green paint. “Ready? It can sort of tickle so get your jitters out now before I start doing the flowers.” She didn’t wait for him to reply, but leaned over his stomach and dragged the brush upwards. He jumped, inhaling sharply and holding his breath so he wouldn’t move.

Akaashi glanced at his phone again, the smallest dip in his eyebrows the only sign that the mystery man had texted him again. Saeko was talking to Bokuto ( _Where do you work? Oh, you’re a cook, that’s awesome. What’s your favorite thing to make? Oh, man barbecue is the best. My little brother’s a firefighter, he loves barbecue, he can’t cook it though so he’s always putting out the fires he starts._ ) and he answered her on autopilot while he stared at Akaashi and the hollow, faraway look in his eyes as he stared across the lawn after reading another text from the man.

He wanted to go to him, to wrap him in his arms and tell him he was safe. That Bokuto would protect him no matter what. But he couldn’t move, was effectively trapped by Saeko and her brushes. Bokuto wondered if Akaashi had planned this.

When Akaashi glanced over and smiled, Bokuto was even more confused. Why didn’t Akaashi talk to him about things that mattered?

“Okay, this is gonna be cold,” Saeko said, dipping a fresh brush into a bright yellow and sliding the bristles across one of his nipples. “Sorry. I’m going to paint a big yellow rose here, I think. And maybe a peony or something on your stomach. Chrysanthemum, maybe. Something with big, pretty petals. You’ve got lovely skin, and—oh, do you work out?”

“Yeah,” Bokuto said, still distracted. “Three times a week.”

“It shows! My girlfriend is big and tall like you, she’s got muscles I would kill for, good God.”

Akaashi asked, “Alisa?”

“Oh that’s right, I forgot you guys met. Yeah, she started going to the gym near our apartment and _hoo-boy_ am I grateful. She was already graceful and built like a—oh I dunno—”

“She’s like a lioness,” Akaashi offered.

“Ah! Yes, exactly. Mhmmm.” Saeko hummed, pleased with this imagery as she dipped the brush again, painting large, round petals across Bokuto’s chest. “I like that. She’ll like that, too. Thanks, you just got me laid tonight, Akaashi.”

Bokuto bit his lip, his stomach trembling as he tried not to laugh.

It took almost two hours, but afterwards Bokuto felt like a garden, with flowers exploding across his torso and vines crawling up his face. Saeko painted every inch of available skin, even dipping into the hem of his jeans to make sure his skin didn’t show through the green of the plants of the redbrick she had painted as a backdrop.

Akaashi was painted too, his arm now looked exactly as a serpent, blacks and greens shifting with his skin as he moved his arm. One half of his face was painted as well, matching the colors on his arm, but with a touch of bright yellow, a torn petal on his cheek. When he stood behind Bokuto and tucked his head on his shoulder, wrapping his arm around Bokuto’s chest as instructed, the image was complete and lovely. Saeko took artful photographs, both for them to keep and for her portfolio.

Bokuto didn’t know what to do with his hands, but Saeko told him to put them behind his back and, when he did, Akaashi’s free hand took his and placed them flat against his stomach as he pressed in close. Bokuto’s fingers twitched with the desire to dip into his pants, or run his fingers across Akaashi’s body, but he held perfectly still.

In the photo Saeko texted to Akaashi (Bokuto noticed the missed call and unread text notifications but said nothing) they looked like one being. Bokuto hadn’t known what to do with his face, either, so he had closed his eyes and let his head dip back to rest on Akaashi’s, showing the thorns that stabbed into his throat and glistened red. Akaashi peered over his shoulder, staring straight at the camera, his eyes lidded and heavy, the yellow petal on his cheek and the blue of his eyes bright against all that dark green.

They looked beautiful and deadly, so when Saeko entered them in a contest and they won, she took home a prize of several hundred dollars. They both declined her offer to share it, Akaashi saying their payment could be a nice big printout of the photo.

“Hey, if you ever want a touch up I can do that, too,” she told Bokuto as they were leaving. “Free of charge.”

“Sounds good.” He smiled at her, then took Akaashi’s hand as they left the crowd. Akaashi twitched, and his hand squeezed around Bokuto’s.

“Is he callin’ you again?” Bokuto asked, his voice dropping low in his anger.

“Yeah…”

“Akaashi,” he stepped off the path, tugging Akaashi into a sunlit patch of grass, pulling him down so they were sitting knee to knee. “Look, I don’t like you being upset like this.”

“I’m not,” Akaashi protested, but he couldn’t meet Bokuto’s eyes, instead staring down at his hands, clenched together in his lap.

“You are. I can see it.” Bokuto took his hands and held them, trying to convey the depth of his feelings for him. “It worries me. That man that won’t leave you alone—just say the word and I’ll cut him up with my knives.”

Akaashi chuckled, startled into it, and shook his head. “Murder is illegal.”

“I’d do anything for you.”

“It’s fine. I can take care of myself.” He turned his fingers, the one without the snake face painted on them, and stroked the tattoo on Bokuto’s wrist.

“I don’t care if you can, I want to protect you. You mean so much to me, you know that? Let me take care of you.” They hadn’t known each other long but Bokuto meant it—he loved how happy and buoyant he felt when he was with Akaashi. It was _right_ the same way it was _right_ when he first stepped into _je sais pas_.

Akaashi’s face flushed, the half not painted turning a soft pink of embarrassment. “God, Bokuto, you can’t say such sappy things in public.”

Bokuto leaned forward and kissed him. “Watch me. You’ll tell me if I need to chop someone up for you? I’ll be your Sweeney Todd.”

“You’re an idiot,” Akaashi laughed, “but I will be sure to let you know if I need your services.”

 

* * *

 

Later that night, after Bokuto had made a delicious dinner of baked salmon and garlic potatoes, they were curled up on the couch together, Akaashi sipping gin straight from the bottle and Bokuto following suit with the leftover wine from dinner. Bokuto was pleasantly light headed and full, and liked the shape of Akaashi against his body, liked the way he tucked himself close and laid his cheek against Bokuto’s chest.

Matsukawa and Hanamaki had left after dinner to _go out,_ wherever that was, announcing that they wouldn’t be back until well past dawn and looking like they meant it, dressed in leather and lace, Hanamaki hanging off Matsukawa’s neck like a happy drunkard.

Bokuto and Akaashi had cleaned themselves of their paint, sharing the space of the small bathroom and wiping warm cloths over each other. It had taken every bit of self control Bokuto had to not push Akaashi into the shower and strip him, kissing him until he decided to move to the bedroom. But Bokuto wanted Akaashi comfortable, so he didn’t.

On the television was a rerun of _I Love Lucy,_ and Akaashi would giggle every now and then at the antics of Lucy and Ricky Ricardo. Bokuto would smile every time he heard it and kiss his head, tightening his arm fondly. “You like night time telly?”

Akaashi grinned, looked up at him, craning his neck backwards. “I like all television. I like crappy rom-coms, cartoons, food shows, reality tv shows...”

“You know most of them are scripted?” Bokuto laughed.

“Eh, so what? They’re entertaining. I used to love _America’s Next Top Model_ but it got really weird after a while.”

Bokuto chuckled, shifting and taking a swig from his wine bottle. “Isn’t it all weird?”

“What?”

“Modeling.”

Akaashi hummed, sitting up and turning to face him with a smirk. “Want to try it?”

Bokuto laughed and put one arm behind his head. “What?”

“I’ve got an old camera. I can show you.” He pushed himself to his feet and tugged on Bokuto’s hand. “Come on, come on, I’m liking this idea the more I think about it. You did good with the painting picture earlier.” He took his bottle and Bokuto’s hand and padded upstairs to his bedroom, Bokuto stumbling along behind him. Akaashi set him on his bed then dug through the closet while Bokuto admired the way his legs looked miles long in the slimming black leggings he wore.

“Ah-ha!” Akaashi declared happily, pulling out a square black bag and opening it to pull out an old model Canon with a short lens. “I wonder if the battery is charged—it is! It’s not dead, at least.” He smiled, picking his way over the piles of clothes back to Bokuto.

“What am I doing exactly?” Bokuto raised an eyebrow, raising the bottle to his lips and taking a sip. He choked when Akaashi raised the camera and snapped a quick picture. “Wait, what the hell?” He laughed, coughing and wiping his mouth.

Akaashi glanced at the screen on the camera and chuckled. “Just a test shot.” He looked up at the light and frowned, then hopped up on the bed and pulled the cover off the light, making it brighter and more spread out. Akaashi stood staring down at Bokuto, then inched himself away from the light and said, “Here, look up at me.”

Bokuto leaned his head back and grinned at the feeling of dizziness from the wine. “Can I keep drinking?”

“Shush,” Akaashi said, moving the camera to his face and peering through it. “Put the arm with the bottle on your lap—mhm-hmm, like that, and lean back on your other arm. Look up, tilt your head, no the other way.” He snapped a few pictures, then said, “Okay, relax your face.”

Bokuto snickered. “That sounds dirty.” Akaashi kicked him with his toe and Bokuto laughed again. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t smile like that. Do a serious picture. Oh! Wait,” he flopped down to his butt and slid off the bed, handing the camera to Bokuto while he dug through a pile of scarves under his bed. “Here, try… oh or maybe this one.” He tossed a handful of scarves at Bokuto then scrambled back up, perching in his lap and looking at each one like it was a very important decision.

Bokuto liked the way his eyes shone with interest, the little crease between his brows as he concentrated, and the nimbleness of his hands as he searched through the scarves, even though he could tell that Akaashi was well on his way to being drunk. Akaashi looped several over Bokuto’s shoulders, then tossed them away flippantly with a scoff. Bokuto wanted to touch him, wanted to slide his hands up under the cardigan and feel the softness of his skin. Wanted to kiss him and taste the gin on his tongue, make him sigh and say Bokuto’s name with a breathless, soft voice. His mouth watered, not from the wine, and he leaned forward to kiss him.

Akaashi giggled and wrapped his arms around Bokuto’s neck so he could lean against his chest and kiss him with their bodies pressed together. Bokuto was the one who broke first, groaning out Akaashi’s name since he couldn’t touch him. He held the bottle of wine in one hand and the camera in the other. Akaashi smiled against his lips then pulled away, flushed and giggling. “You taste like wine.”

“And you like gin.”

Akaashi nodded, then leaned back so he could slide off Bokuto’s lap and take his camera back. “Here, scoot, sit with your back against the wall. Oh, give me that.” He took Bokuto’s wine and set it beside his gin bottle on the dresser and cocked his head at Bokuto. “Cross your legs.”

Bokuto did so, grinning and watching him. He wondered if Akaashi had been a photographer before he was a model, because he seemed to like it, and the role looked like it fit him well. Akaashi tapped his lips with his slender fingers in thought. Bokuto smiled at him and leaned his elbow on his knee while he waited. It must have been what Akaashi had been looking for, because he raised the camera and took a few shots. Bokuto sat still, nervous about messing up the pictures.

“You can move,” Akaashi told him, snapping away. “Move naturally.”

Bokuto hesitated, uncomfortable with the attention. “What do you mean?”

“Hm… try putting your hand on your cheek.” Bokuto obliged and Akaashi chuckled, reappearing from behind the camera. “No, don’t plop it like that. Do it softly.”

“Eh?”

Akaashi touched his own hand to his cheek in demonstration, his fingers curling gently. “Like this. Ballet hands, graceful.”

Bokuto snickered and told him seriously, “I am not, nor have I ever been, graceful.”

Akaashi laughed. “You’re graceful when you’re cooking.”

“I’m in the zone when I’m cooking.”

“Pretend you’re holding a knife, then. Or something else.”

 _You,_ Bokuto thought, staring at him.

Akaashi stared at him a few moments, face unreadable, then raised the camera again.

 

* * *

 

Through the lens, Akaashi gazed at Bokuto in wonder. Damn, if he wasn’t into the culinary world Akaashi would offer to send some pictures to an agent. Bokuto could be a model, easily. He had the body for it. He was tall and strong, with a sharply angled face. The scars and tattoos on his hands and arms could be fixed in post… but Akaashi rather liked them, actually. They told stories—or rather, Bokuto liked telling the stories.

“Don’t be so stiff,” he told Bokuto.

Bokuto inhaled a deep breath and leaned his head over, mumbling that he didn’t feel very natural. He brushed his hand through his hair as he looked back up at Akaashi and… there! Akaashi snapped a photo and pulled his face away from the viewfinder to look at the picture on the screen. His breath caught in his chest at the sight—he’d caught Bokuto’s hand half in his hair and the moment his eyes flashed upwards, the golden hue of his irises burning a hole in the lens and straight through to Akaashi’s stomach. He had no right to be so gorgeous, especially in a white t-shirt and jeans. He could see Bokuto’s nipples through the thin fabric of the shirt and the outline of his stomach, the dark shadow of the hair below his navel.

He jumped when Bokuto seemed to materialize beside him, leaning his cheek into Akaashi’s shoulder. “Wow, I look weird.”

Akaashi laughed, his heart hammering nervously in his chest. “You look hot.”

“Oh, really now?” Bokuto turned his face and brushed his nose across Akaashi’s cheek.

“Mhm-hmm,” Akaashi hummed, setting the camera carefully down and turning so that Bokuto could take him in his arms, kissing him as they entwined together. He liked kissing Bokuto, liked the way he tasted of exotic things, even through the haze of cigarettes. Things Akaashi was too scared to eat but quite liked smelling and looking at, tasting them on his lips. Bokuto’s hands were large and rough, the calluses from his career itching across Akaashi’s sensitive skin as Bokuto moved his hands around to his back and up under his shirt.

Akaashi whimpered softly, unable to stop himself, as Bokuto tugged him close against his body, deepening the kiss, pressing one hand under the hem of the leggings and spreading his fingers over Akaashi’s hip. His hands moved down to cup his ass and pick him up, holding Akaashi against his much stronger body and turned him so he was laid out on the bed, Bokuto hovering over him, never breaking their kiss. This was more than they’d ever done. Further. More intimate than sweet, innocent kisses, holding hands, cuddling.

 _Don’t think,_ Akaashi told himself, closing his eyes and holding his breath, _just let it happen don’t think, you’ll be okay once it’s over._

But instead of stripping him, as he expected, Bokuto pulled away, frowning at him. “What’s wrong? Is this… too much?” His voice was strained, the sanded off edges of his vowels all round and soft. Akaashi knew that he must be nervous enough to not bother to hide his accent, then.

Akaashi shook his head, turning it away, trying to hide the tears in his eyes. “Nothing.”

Bokuto sat back, touching Akaashi’s arm, then pulling away when Akaashi flinched. “Akaashi, are you alright?”

Akaashi closed his eyes, but was bombarded with memories of bodies touching him, tongues and fingers doing whatever they wished to him. He’d needed the money. To avoid the memories he opened his eyes and gazed at the ceiling, trying to disappear into himself, to hide. _Just get it over with…_

Bokuto stood and Akaashi inhaled sharply, preparing himself for what may come next. Bokuto’s arms came around him, pulling him against his chest. Akaashi began to shake, his breath coming hard and fast, remembering the first time he’d been held this way, held down against his will.

“I’ve got you,” Bokuto said gently, petting his hair. “You’re safe.”

Akaashi jerked, a sob escaping. “I—Let me go…”

Bokuto didn’t, only held him tighter. “What’s wrong? Tell me what I did—”

“Let me go!” Akaashi sobbed, twisting in Bokuto’s arms. He had no doubt in his mind that Bokuto could hold him down, take what he wanted, barely noticing Akaashi’s feeble struggles. He ripped himself away, heart hammering and the room transforming to the darkened room, mask over his eyes, invisible people touching him and fucking him and forcing his mouth open—

“Go away!” Akaashi screamed, shoving out of Bokuto’s slack arms and crawling to the other side of the bed, pulling the blankets up to protect himself.

Bokuto was staring at him, reaching for him, his hand touched Akaashi’s head and he slapped it away. “Don’t touch me,” Akaashi snarled to the man as he leaned over him.

_“It’s fine,” the photographer told him. “Here, just try this, you’ll feel better.” He pried open Akaashi’s mouth and placed a pill on his tongue. It dissolved into a bitter powder and Akaashi felt his body melting, spinning, dizzying. Hands pushed his legs apart, touched him too hard, weren’t gentle at all. Akaashi just closed his eyes and let himself get lost in his mind._

When it was over… he crawled away on hands and knees, hid in the back of his closet, tears wet on his cheeks, unable to breathe through his nose because he had nothing to blow it on, hiccuping with sobs and body shaking so hard his muscles began to ache. Bokuto was gone, probably ran off when he saw how broken Akaashi was. He buried his face in his favorite faux fur jacket, the softness of the fur felt good against his raw cheeks. _Good_ , Akaashi thought, _at least Bokuto left before they both got hurt_.

Too hurt, at least. Akaashi’s chest was tight with panic and fear and sadness. He closed his eyes and curled under the pile of clothes, letting the tears come, letting the broken heart come to the surface for now so he could cry it out, so he could shove it down hard tomorrow. He’d get in trouble for the redness and swelling of his eyes, but he didn’t care just now.

Instead he let himself cry, let himself remember the good times with Bokuto, the food he’d fed him that he didn’t feel immediately like purging. Walking home with him in the early hours of the morning, feeling protected with Bokuto beside him, loud and strong and larger than life. He remembered the trip to the top of the Empire State Building, Bokuto insisting on taking him because Akaashi had never been. Bokuto muscling people aside so Akaashi could get a good view of the city. The two of them playfully pointing out high class apartments they could one day rent together when Akaashi was a super-model and Bokuto was a Michelin star chef.

It would never happen, but even so… the loss of the possibility was bewildering.

He didn’t know how long he hid in the closet wallowing in his pathetic sorrows, but suddenly someone was there.

“Akaashi?” Bokuto’s voice, in the bedroom, searching for him. Akaashi wanted to go to him, but was too scared, too ashamed. Couldn’t look him in the eye. He buried himself deeper, holding the fur to his mouth to not make a sound. Bokuto found him anyway. He gave a small, tentative smile at him. “Hey, there you are. C’mere.” His voice was careful and light. He didn’t reach out to touch Akaashi at all.

Akaashi could only shake his head, fist pressed in his mouth.

“Ah, come on. I’ve made you something yummy.” His smile widened, encouraging.

Akaashi looked up, sniffed, the tears and snot gushed down his face and caught in his throat. He felt disgusting. He was disgusting. He hated himself. Bokuto should go. Bokuto shouldn’t like him, he wasn’t worth it. “I’m not hungry…” He could barely get the words out because of the tears and snot and everything all stopped up in his throat.

“I don’t care,” Bokuto said simply, kindly. “Come on. I want you to try it. I think you’ll like them.” Now he extended a hand to help Akaashi up. Akaashi stared at him, willing him silently to go, to leave him to cry alone, just let him go, but Bokuto was more patient than Akaashi gave him credit for and eventually Akaashi reached for him, both arms extended, and Bokuto pulled him into his arms, hugging him close while Akaashi sobbed again.

“I-I’m sorry!” Akaashi mumbled into Bokuto’s shirt. “I’m so—messed up—” He hiccuped between words, unable to breathe. “Please don’t—God—you should—just—go!”

Bokuto picked him up, carried him to the bed and set him down, pulling a blanket over his head and closing it around him. “Hey now, you’re safe, it’s alright,” Bokuto told him, leaning close and smiling. “Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you.” He reached around to the bedside table and handed him a box of tissues.

Akaashi stared at him, baffled, embarrassed, then blew his nose and buried his face in the blanket. “I’m sorry…”

“Ahhh, stop that,” Bokuto told him. “Now, here.” He reached over and brought over a chipped plate, proffering it to him.

Akaashi stared at the plate, confused. “Cookies?”

“Chocolate chip cookies,” Bokuto declared. On the plate were a dozen cookies littered with chocolate chunks. They were gooey and had a soft golden brown color to them, and they smelled like heaven. They somehow reminded Akaashi of his childhood, even though his mother never made cookies for him.

“They make everything better.”

Akaashi wiped his nose. “Do they?”

Bokuto didn’t hesitate, but raised his eyebrow and smiled, encouraging. “Try one and find out.”

Akaashi laughed a bit, just a little painful because of the rawness of his throat. He reached a shaking hand and picked the smallest cookie, but Bokuto shook his head so Akaashi hovered his hand over the plate until Bokuto smiled and nodded. He picked up one of the largest cookies with the biggest chunks of melting chocolate. So much it stuck to his fingers. His skin crawled at the sensation of butter and chocolate on his skin but he took a small, hesitant bite. The outside was crunchy, but the inside was almost underdone and still warm. The chocolate was especially nice, so much that it made the cookie decadent but not so much to over power the dough. His mouth suddenly watered and he took another bite, which made Bokuto grin like a madman.

Bokuto took a cookie as well and ate it in one giant bite, having to turn his head sideways to fit the whole thing in in one piece. “D’ya like it?”

Akaashi nodded, eating another bite, liking the touch of salt that made sure the cookie wasn’t overly sweet. He wiped his fingers carefully on a tissue when he was through. “Yes… they’re good.”

Bokuto nodded and set the plate on Akaashi’s lap. “Eat another.”

“I’d rather not…”

Bokuto smirked at him and quoted, “ _You can’t just eat one._ ”

“That’s Pringles.”

“It’s cookies too. Eat another.” Bokuto plucked one from the plate and popped it in his mouth. “I would have brought you some of your weird nut milk but it’s gone bad.”

“Oh… I’ll have to get more,” Akaashi mumbled, ignoring the odd comment about Makki’s almond milk and reaching for the gin bottle, but saw that Bokuto had taken both it and the wine away. Probably for the best, since Akaashi planned to drown in it.

Bokuto handed him another cookie. “Eat it.”

Akaashi frowned at the pastry, unsure.

“Do you not like them?”

Akaashi sighed. “No, they’re delicious. I just don’t want to eat too many…”

Bokuto laughed. “I’ve eaten twenty five cookies before I felt sick so _that’s_ too many. Not one.”

“Oh, God, you’re making me ill.” Akaashi chuckled softly, but did take another bite. They really were quite good. That’s what made them so dangerous. They were quiet while Akaashi spent several minutes eating his singular cookie and Bokuto eating three or four.

Finally, Bokuto looked over at him, brows pointy with worry. “You’ve had… bad things happen to you?” He said it gently, in a way that meant Akaashi didn’t have to answer.

He could only nod and was silent too long, two minutes (he counted). Bokuto waited, eating another cookie and letting Akaashi think about what to say, if anything. Finally, he admitted, “Yes. But I don’t want to talk about it.”

Bokuto nodded, handed him another cookie and stood, the plate clean. “If you ever do, I’m here. If not, that’s fine too.” He leaned over and kissed Akaashi’s hair then padded out of the room on bare feet, presumably to drop the empty plate in the kitchen. Akaashi stared at the cookie, distraught. He didn’t want to eat it but had nothing else to do with it. He had nothing to put it on. He couldn’t put it in his laundry. He didn’t have a waste basket in here. Besides, Bokuto would see it there. So… he did the only thing he could do. He ate it. Never in his life had he eaten three cookies in a row. But … for Bokuto… he would do it. And, he thought, he might even let them stay in his body. They did make things better, after all.


	15. devein

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Refrences to Sexual Trauma (i said implied earlier, which was wrong. I was very tired when I posted this ...) and Graphic Violence

Bokuto couldn’t sleep. He held a fitfully dozing Akaashi in his arms, soothing him with long, gentle strokes whenever he moaned in his sleep. He was having nightmares, or something close to it, and it broke Bokuto’s heart to see it, to feel Akaashi’s thin frame shivering from fear.

Akaashi’s phone kept lighting up and even though Bokuto tried to ignore it eventually he reached over, careful to not bother Akaashi’s curled, sleeping form, and plucked the phone from the bedside table.

The phone lit up with another incoming text message from someone in Akaashi’s phone as _Photo. Teru._

The texts on the lock screen didn’t actually have the contents of the message, only _Open Phone to Read_ and _Photo. Teru. Sent You an Image._ So Bokuto slid the lock sideways and, to his surprise, the phone opened. He flipped to the text messages and almost dropped the phone in his surprise.

The images that _Photo. Teru._ had sent were worse than vulgar. They were dark and shadowy, but not so dark that Bokuto could miss Akaashi in them, blindfolded and held down by mysterious hands, absolutely naked with other bodies hovering around him.

No wonder Akaashi didn’t want Bokuto touching him.

He’d been raped.

It had been filmed—photographed. They were being used to blackmail him.

The texts that accompanied the message were just as bad, if not worse. _I have another job for you. Call me._

_Why won’t you answer? I know you need the money._

_Didn’t you like it last time? We certainly did._

_You Know Who requested you by name._

_Call me back-need to schedule by tomorrow._

Bokuto sat up, vibrating with fury. He extracted himself carefully from Akaashi’s arms, stepping out of the room as quietly as he could. He scrolled through the messages, hating himself for it, but unable to stop himself. More pictures… more texts… more demands. He paced the living room downstairs, sick to his stomach, bile rising as he became more and more incensed. He was sweating with his anger, feeling like he would throw up or throw the phone or throw a punch. He wanted a cigarette but he didn’t have any, had forgotten to get more when he was calm and happy with Akaashi yesterday.

Just as he was beginning to calm down— _if_ that was the word for his restless pacing, he was still furious, just not nearly as twitchy with the need to hit something—Matsukawa and Hanamaki came stumbling through the door, making too much noise for the early morning hours. Hanamaki was now dressed in ridiculously high stiletto heels and tight black leather pants, absolutely smashed drunk, too. Matsukawa kept an arm under him to keep him upright but when they passed through the living room they both stopped at seeing him.

Matsukawa frowned, squeezing Hanamaki’s arm. “Go upstairs. I’ll be up soon.”

Hanamaki didn’t seem to hear him, instead wobbling over towards Bokuto and when he spoke his words were slurred sideways, “Oh! The sexy chef is here—maybe we could—”

“Hey,” Matsukawa snapped, harsh, grabbing him and turning him around. He gripped Hanamaki’s jaw in his hand and forced his chin up. “Look at me.”

Hanamaki did, after a moment of his gaze wandering around the room. “Mhm…?”

“Go upstairs. Strip and go to bed. I’ll be up in a moment.”

Hanamaki shivered, leaning close so that Matsukawa let go of his face and held him up. “I wanna eat though—”

“Bed.”

“Ah… yes, sir.” Hanamaki nodded, sliding his hands over Matsukawa’s chest then stumbling away, clinging to the banister as he stomped up the stairs.

Matsukawa watched him go, then turned to give Bokuto a hard, scrutinizing look that seemed to read the fury in Bokuto’s posture. “What happened?”

“Who’s this?” Bokuto asked, voice low, holding the contact page up to Matsukawa’s face.

He squinted at the screen, having to take Bokuto’s wrist and move the phone as he blinked, trying to focus on it. Bokuto could see his pupils were wide and glassy from alcohol. “Oh, that’s one of the photographers for our agency,” he said. “Why do you have his number?”

“It’s Akaashi’s phone,” Bokuto said, taking it back. “What’s his name?”

Matsukawa’s eyes flicked upwards when they heard a _thunk._ He stepped backwards towards the stairs. “Terushima something or other.”

“Wait.” Bokuto followed him to the stairs. “What’s your company called again?”

“ _Gloss._ ”

“That’s stupid.”

“Tell me about it.” Matsukawa chuckled, stepping up the stairs. “Why do you care?”

“Nothin’—” Bokuto turned away as the phone buzzed with yet another lurid photograph and his anger raised up again, boiling up in his chest and causing actual pain that made him suck in his breath to try to smother it.

Matsukawa shrugged, too drunk to care, and disappeared up the stairs to take care of Hanamaki. Bokuto watched him go, then dropped onto the couch clutching Akaashi’s phone. His finger hovered over the big red BLOCK CONTACT button for a moment, unsure if he should do it…

But then he did it. Blocked the man because he wouldn’t see Akaashi hurt again. Not if he could help it.

 

* * *

 

Akaashi woke alone, curled up in his sheets like a murder victim being taken for disposal. He disentangled himself, sweat sticking to his skin. He wrinkled his nose at the sour smell of himself, then winced at the crust around his eyes and the snot on his lip. He absolutely loathed himself, but he had slept hard and long and warm, so he was grateful for that at least.

Then he blinked, looking around, hand patting at the empty space beside him.

Bokuto was gone.

The tears he thought he’d finished shedding pricked at the back of his eyes, because of course Bokuto left. He’d realized how awful Akaashi was. He pressed his eyes to his knees and took several deep, sharp breaths, trying to hold off on a full blown sob session—at least until after work.

He uncurled himself, reaching for his phone, and saw a note had been set under it. He’d never seen Bokuto’s handwriting before but this slanting, slashing script that looked like it was sliding sideways off the page had to be his. _Sorry to leave you alone… but I have to take care of something. Please forgive me._

Akaashi stared at it, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He didn’t understand. He opened his phone and called Bokuto’s number but after a single ring it went to voicemail. Bokuto had declined his call. Bokuto had _never_ declined his call.

He didn’t know what to make of it, so he went about his morning routine slowly, mechanically: washing his face, taking a nice hot shower until his skin felt like it was melting off, packing a bag of extra clothes, filling his giant water bottle. He paused at the entryway, wondering if he should wake Mattsun and Makki… but if they missed work it was their fault, not his. They might not even have a shoot today, anyway.

Standing outside, he tried to call Bokuto again. This time the call rang six times before clicking through to voicemail. “Bokuto… please call me.”

 

* * *

 

Bokuto leaned against the model’s agency building, half hidden in the alley, already on his fifth cigarette and not sure when he would stop. His hands were shaking, he was light headed and dizzy from all the nicotine, but he didn’t care. Hell, he wanted a nice long line of cocaine—the burn to his nasal passages and the focus it brought his mind would have been helpful.

But no… he’d given up that vice permanently. His fingers twitched each time a blonde man passed by, but he never saw the one he was looking for. He’d Googled the photographer on his way over, memorized his sharply angled, sarcastic features. And planned on rearranging them once he caught the man.

It was nearly six thirty the morning and he knew Akaashi would be leaving the brownstone soon. He’d declined his call earlier, the act in and of itself stabbing his heart with pain, but he didn’t think he could talk to Akaashi and not snarl out his plan. And he didn’t want Akaashi to stop him. Nothing could stop him.

And then.

Around the corner.

Terushima Yuuji came strolling, as if he had nothing in the world to worry about.

Little did he know that Bokuto was waiting for him. As Terushima passed the alley Bokuto flung a hand out and snatched his collar, yanking him backward and swinging him wide, crashing him into the wall. Terushima let out a gasp of pain, his head cracking into the brick and lolling before Bokuto stepped close, ramming his arm up underneath his throat and pressing.

“Hey, asshole,” Bokuto said, his jaw aching with how hard he had been grinding his teeth.

Terushima tried to inhale, to shout, but his airway was cut off so he lashed out with his feet, catching Bokuto in the knee. Bokuto dropped him as pain burst in his leg, but when Terushima tried to crawl away Bokuto shoved aside the pain, reaching down and lifting Terushima bodily from the ground and dragging him backwards, deeper into the darkness of the alley.

He yanked the camera bag from his shoulder and hurled it away, making Terushima screech in horror, “You bastard! What the fuck! I’ll sue you for—”

Bokuto smashed his fist into Terushima’s mouth. He hit teeth, his skin burst with pain and blood, but he reared back and punched him again, in the jaw, knocking his head sideways.

He threw Terushima on the ground and crouched over him, one knee pressed into the sensitive, painful nerve just above his elbow. “If you ever lay your disgusting fucking hands on Akaashi again I will kill you slowly and painfully,” he said the words carefully and clearly, not wanting to have to repeat himself to this scum of the Earth.

Terushima moaned in pain, writhing like a bug caught on a nail. “You shit—I didn’t do anything to—”

Bokuto punched him again, twice, three times. It felt good, too good. He had to stop and inhale three deep breaths, his left hand clamped over Terushima’s mouth, holding him still and stifling his cries. He leaned down, letting his voice drop low until he felt it shifting the way his heart sat in his chest, vibrating his ribcage. “If you ever even look at him again…” He stroked Terushima’s lips with his fingertips, forcing the man to focus on his face, even as his pupils shifted, blowing wide and shrinking to pinpricks in rapid succession. “Let me put it to you this way, hey— _pay attention._ ” He slapped Terushima hard across the cheek, an open handed slap to bring him to focus. “Butchering animals is easy for me.” Bokuto leaned forward, squeezing Terushima’s throat, squeezing into the pressure points under his ears with his fingers. “I will flay you alive and feed your own shit to you if you touch him again.” He couldn’t help the tremor of fury in his chest, but was sadistically pleased with the whimpers coming from Terushima’s broken face. “I will slice your dick off and feed it to feral cats. Do you,” he squeezed harder to make his point, “understand me?”

Terushima’s eyes were glossy and blank, the concussion setting in. The bubble of blood that burst at his lips gave a pathetic whisper, “Yes…”

Bokuto heaved several deep breaths, then, just because he could, he let his body act, fists cracking into Terushima’s face of their own accord. He felt his knuckles burst when he forgot his technique and broke them open on Terushima’s cheekbone. His pinky broke with a sharp, aching snap when he hit his jaw again. He didn’t stop, the edges of his vision bleeding red, and he didn’t know if it was Terushima’s blood oozing into his synapses or his fury finally breathing out its hot hatred.

Someone grabbed him from behind, yanking him back. Bokuto whipped around, swinging a fist wide, catching a big man in the arm. The man shouted something at him, hooked his arms under Bokuto’s and pulled him hard. Bokuto struggled, twisting like a snake, throwing elbows and knees. He wanted to get back to beating Terushima.

It took three large men several long minutes to subdue him. When they finally did he was panting and bruised, held to the ground with a knee in his spine and handcuffs on his wrists, too tight, biting into his skin. His spat blood onto the ground, then the man above him held his head down, blood smearing onto his cheek. “Hey fucker!” Bokuto shouted, and was smacked across the back his head with a baton that sent his eyes nearly popping out of his skull with pain.

Another man was leaning over Terushima, phone pressed to his ear, calling an ambulance. _Don’t,_ Bokuto thought, growling to himself, muscles tensing with the effort to throw the man on top of him off and finish the job himself. _Let him fucking die. He deserves it._

He was hauled to his feet by his arms, his shoulders aching with the rough treatment. As he was dragged to the street, his head shoved into the back of a police car, he looked up and saw Akaashi standing with the gathered crowd.

He looked stunned, fearful, his mouth parted with a thousand questions as he turned his face to see Terushima prone in the alley, then jerking back to Bokuto with wide blue eyes. Bokuto met his gaze unflinchingly through the window, trying to tell him, to promise him, _you’re safe now._

 

* * *

 

Akaashi had to lean against the wall and force air in and out of his lungs as Bokuto was whisked away in a police car. He could hear an ambulance almost here, could hear the security men talking to Terushima, trying to keep him awake. Leaning around the corner, he saw Terushima’s blood staining the concrete and brick walls in sprays where Bokuto’s fists had sent it flying from his face.

He barely looked like a person. It made Akaashi sick to his stomach and he had to cover his mouth to avoid throwing up bile. He flicked his eyes around the alley until he saw the camera bag spilled open on the ground. No one was paying attention to it. Likely no one would. He knew the alley fed through the other side, so he turned and dashed away, stumbling around the building to the other side of the alley. On his hands and knees he crawled, as close to the dirty, sordid ground as he could get. He reached out, hiding behind a garbage can, and hooked his fingers around the bag, pulling it close until he had it in his lap. With trembling hands he extracted the memory cards, one from the camera and a small case of many, many more.

He didn’t know if these were all, or even if Terushima had made copies of the photos and videos taken during the Bad Nights, but it was a start. He dumped the camera in the bin and hobbled to his feet, retreating back towards the front of the building as he stuffed the memory cards into his bag.

He had to go in. He had to work. He couldn’t just not show up to work. So, still shaking from shock, he pushed through the crowd still gathered and made his way upstairs to the models floor where they kept their things and had hair and make-up done. He dropped his bag in a locker and hooked a padlock around it, pressing his fingers to the cold metal as it closed, praying that the memory cards weren’t found before he could burn them in a fire.

“Keiji!” A girl’s voice made him turn, startled, heart leaping into his throat. “There you are! Oh my God did you hear what happened?!”

Akaashi nodded, pulling a sweater around him, hugging it tight to disguise how his body was still shaking, “I saw it, Stacy, it was…” He didn’t—couldn’t—hide the shudder that wracked him. “Awful.”

She nodded, her lovely dark hair falling around her face even as she tried to push it out. “Right?! Crazy dude comes and beats up a photographer? What the hell’s going on in the world?” She tugged her hair back and with several deft swipes of her fingers twisted it into a braided bun. Akaashi watched with fascination, jealous and sometimes wishing he could grow out his hair that long.

“Yeah… crazy,” he muttered.

“Well, maybe we’ll hear what happened sometime soon. They took Terushima away in an ambulance. Kelsie said she heard the words _concussion_ and _reconstructive surgery.”_ She raised her perfectly sculpted eyebrows at this, eyes widening. “Can you imagine?”

Akaashi shook his head. “Not at all…”

She shrugged, taking his hand and pulling him out. “Well, the show must go on, as they say. They’ve already dished out Terushima’s projects to other photographers. Some say it’ll be better this way, anyway, since he was sort of a one trick pony.”

“Mhm.”

“You gotta get your face on—don’t you have an exotic session at eleven?” She dumped him in her chair, tying around her waist an apron that had her make-up brushes within easy reach. “What the fuck happened to you?” She eyed him closely, taking his face in her hands with no sense of personal space. She had spent almost much time with his face as he had so he didn’t mind. “You were crying again! What happened? Who do I have to beat up?”

Akaashi opened his mouth… closed it again, looking away, at a loss. The person who he needed beat up had just had his face broken open by Bokuto’s bare hands. There probably wasn’t much Stacy could other than a nice hard kick in the balls. Although, she always kept a pair of sharp, dagger like stiletto’s tucked under her station for the purposes of kicking…

“It’s alright,” he said, trying to smile. “I’m sorry.”

She shook her head, probing at the sensitive skin of his eyes with her fingers. “I worry about you, my darling, you’re my favorite person here, y’know?”

“Thank you,” he smiled at her, “really. You mean a lot to me, too.”

She grinned, winking at him. “Yeah, I’m the one who makes you look pretty for the camera. You better fucking like me. Now sit still, I think I can cover the dark circles and get your make-up on before you’re too late for the session.”

“You’re a treasure,” Akaashi told her honestly, relaxing into the chair as she dabbed concealer under his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I personally don't think that Bokuto handled this well... I don't endorse such violence. But this Bo it felt in character for.


	16. blanch

“Hey,” the police officer called from the bars. “Come on, you’ve got bail.”

Bokuto looked up from picking at the skin around his fingers. He’d already had his bail hearing and they told him he should be so lucky to have had it on the same day. The bail was high, too high for him to pay, so he was sitting in jail while he waited for a bondsman to arrange bail for him. “Huh?”

The officer glared. “Move your ass.” He had a hand on the door, ready to unlock it when Bokuto got up.

So he did. He moved around the thugs and thieves and to the door, slipping out when the officer opened the cage for him. “Who bailed me? I didn’t even call anyone.”

The officer ignored him, turning and walking down the hall, lights flickering overhead. When they got to the lobby Bokuto stopped in his tracks, staring at Kuroo.

He stood at a desk, leaning over and talking softly to an officer. He was in his street clothes, tight black jeans and an old comfortable t-shirt, and Bokuto had to take a moment when he realized he’d never seen Kuroo in anything other than his ridiculously colored and patterned chef pants. Kuroo looked up and his polite smile was anything but and something twisted deep in Bokuto’s gut.

_Shit, I’m going to get fired._

“Hey… Kuroo…” Bokuto mumbled when the officer steered him over.

Kuroo scowled at him, knocking his knuckles on the table, perfunctory, furious. “Thank you, officer.”

The officer pulled the cuffs off Bokuto’s wrists. “You better be glad there’s no charges being pressed…yet.”

Bokuto nodded, rubbing his wrist with his non bandaged hand. “Yeah…” He took his things from the officer and stuffed them in his pockets: phone, keys, cigarettes, lighter.

Kuroo waved him out. “Come on.”

Bokuto thanked the officer and as he and Kuroo left the station he picked at the gauze on his knuckles, heart pounding with nerves so loudly it nearly deafened him. He could feel the anger rising of Kuroo’s body, could see it in the set of his shoulders and the twitch of his jaw. He didn’t know what to say… he needed to thank him for bail, it was so much money, he needed to pay him back, he would pay him back.

But when he opened his mouth to speak Kuroo whipped around, eyes blazing with fury. “What the _fuck?_ ” His voice was hard as glass, sharp as the knives they used on a daily basis.

Bokuto flinched back, all the anger from the morning having been purged, leaving nothing but a hot, messy, complicated ball of emotions in its wake. He was ashamed of himself—but not because he got caught, or that he had been taken to jail, but because the way that Kuroo looked at him. He’d been working for months to gain the respect of his friend and Chef but… he’d lost it all in a moment.

But he would never, never change what he did. Terushima Yuuji deserved what he got. He deserved worse.

“Look,” Bokuto mumbled, not able to meet Kuroo’s eyes, his face burning. “It was necessary—”

Kuroo slapped him, hard, an open palmed smack that sent bells ringing in Bokuto’s head. He blinked, stunned, touching his cheek and the stinging mark it left behind. Kuroo pointed a finger in his face, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble, “You’re in deep shit, my friend. I don’t care what someone does, there’s no reason to rearrange their face. You’re better than that, Bokuto!”

Bokuto shrank backwards, felt his chest collapsing with the weight of Kuroo’s disappointment. “I don’t have to explain to you…” he said, pulling away, shoulders slumping, hand to his face, cheek stinging.

Kuroo scowled, his face dark. “No, I guess not. But if you do it again I won’t bail you out.”

Bokuto whispered, “I’ll pay you back.”

“Yeah, you will! But that’s not the point. I don’t condone that type of behavior in my—”

Bokuto snapped over him, “The world isn’t a kitchen, Kuroo! I’m your employee—not your child. You can’t—”

“The fucking hell I can’t!” Kuroo shouted back, waving an arm wildly. “Friends stop friends from ruining their lives! Thank God it was your first offense or you’d have been sent to prison!”

Bokuto stared at him, hesitant, unsure. “We’re friends?”

Kuroo threw his arms in the air, angrily shouting, “Of course we’re friends!”

“Oh… good.”

Kuroo pointed at him. “What. Happened?”

Inhaling slowly, leaning against a bike rack, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with shaking fingers. “I … can’t tell you. He deserved it, that’s all I can say.”

“That’s not good enough.” Kuroo folded his arms, glaring, but at the cigarette or at his words Bokuto wasn’t sure.

Bokuto shrugged, the nicotine buzzing through his brain. “I mean, I really can’t. It’s not my place to tell you.”

Kuroo glowered at this unsatisfactory answer. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means”—and here Bokuto blew smoke in his face, and Kuroo smacked his arm—“what he did to deserve a face rearrangement is not public knowledge and I. Can’t. Tell. You. Please, dude, trust me on this. You trust me on the line… trust me on this.”

After a moment of frustrated staring, Kuroo nodded. “Fine. Doesn’t mean you’re getting out of punishment. I don’t care what he did to ‘deserve it’ you don’t get to decide that. That’s for a jury of his peers.”

Bokuto snorted. “You gonna spank me then, Kuroo?”

Kuroo rolled his eyes, raising an arm to hail a cab. “No, I’ll put you to work.”

“But my hand’s broken!”

“You’ve got two.”

 

* * *

 

Akaashi spent the day in a wriggling, tight ball of worry. He went through his shoot with professionalism, because he was a professional, but the photographer still noticed that his head wasn’t quite in it. He was through by three in the afternoon, and yanked off the clothes he wore for the shoot and dressed in his own street clothes quickly. He was hopping into his shoes as he ran out, pounding down the stairs, already digging his phone out to call Bokuto.

He didn’t think Bokuto would answer, and was mentally mapping out the way to the police station he thought they might have taken Bokuto to, already planning out the lie that would get him back to see him. He didn’t know what he’d say to Bokuto himself but… when it came out of his mouth he’d know.

But after too many rings, the line clicked through and Akaashi came to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk. People shouted at him to move, and someone even shoved him aside but Akaashi didn’t care, he only gasped into the phone, “Bokuto!?”

The voice on the phone wasn’t Bokuto, though. “No.” It was full and deep, the singular word laced with a sharp disapproval.

“Who is this?” Akaashi said quickly. “Where’s Bokuto?”

The man on the other side was silent a moment. “He’s doing his penance.”

“Who the hell are you!?” Akaashi yelled, too loud, causing several people to glance at him.

“I’m his boss. Go home. He’s busy.” And the line went dead.

Akaashi stared at blank phone in his hand, dumbfounded. His boss? He pulled up the map function—he knew the name of the place where Bokuto worked—but damn how to spell it? Something French. Googling frantically. If his boss had his phone then surely Bokuto was there, too. How had he gotten out of jail?

Akaashi had noticed all the messages that had been sent after he’d been asleep. He knew Bokuto had seen them, had seen the pictures and the videos. It sickened him… the thought that Bokuto had seen those things. But he knew it would be the only reason Bokuto would have done what he did. He’d seen the fire in his eyes as they took him away.

It had chilled him to the bone.

He had to find Bokuto. Had to talk to him. Had to explain…

He found the restaurant, he had spelled it wrong but it wasn’t hard to find on the internet. So he hailed a cab (having to leap out in the street and smash his hands on the hood of one before it would stop for him) and begged the driver to hurry. Every moment he spent away from Bokuto sent his heart skittering faster, the need to explain himself making him sick with worry. He’d never meant the evenings with Terushima to happen. He hadn’t known the first time what would happen… but he’d been paid well. He needed money. And when the money hadn’t been enough to persuade him, Terushima had threatened to leak the pictures—so that no agency would hire him again—the negative stigma against sex workers and rape victims was so ingrained in their society that Akaashi knew he’d never have gotten another job.

Not as a model, anyway.

The cab stopped outside the restaurant, the curtains drawn over the windows so nothing could be seen of the inside. He tossed money at the cab driver, told him to keep the change, threw himself out and banged on the door with his palm when he found it locked.

Finally, someone came to the door, peering out with large, cat like eyes. “We’re closed, sir. We open at—oof, _hey!”_

Akaashi pushed past the smaller blonde man into the restaurant, ignoring his protests. He saw the port door to the kitchen and ran back, bursting through without ever thinking what he’d say on the other side of it. The kitchen was large and bright, almost overwhelmingly so after the dimness of the front lobby. He cast his gaze around, trying to make them adjust faster, as all heads turned to him. Bokuto was standing at a counter, talking to a short dark haired man with a gutted fish between them.

“Bo—” Akaashi gasped out, unable to actually find the air in his lungs to continue. Relief and fear surged up in him, a brand new rush of adrenaline, icy cold and making everything in him give a deep seated shiver.

Bokuto blinked at him, then shrugged off the counter and came over, walking fast, sweeping Akaashi up into his arms and holding him so tight it hurt. “Keiji…” Bokuto whispered against his neck, lifting him off the floor, arms secure around his back.

Akaashi felt the gauze on his fingers, the splint on his little finger, and tears pricked at the back of his throat, stinging and hot. “What were you thinking?”

Someone cleared his throat, and Bokuto set Akaashi down gently, never removing his arms, eyes never leaving his face. Akaashi noticed that his jacket wasn’t the same one he always wore, this one didn’t fit quite right—the buttons not closing all the way to the top, black tank top stark underneath the white coat.

“Bokuto this isn’t the time for—”

“Shut up, Kuroo, give me five minutes. Come on.” Bokuto pulled Akaashi towards a hallway, ignoring Kuroo’s protests, and closed them in a large walk-in pantry. Bokuto tugged Akaashi against him again, burying his face in his hair as Akaashi pressed his wet cheeks against Bokuto’s throat. “I’m so sorry,” Bokuto whispered.

Akaashi choked on air, on a sob, on emotion. “I—just—Bokuto, why—You’re insane—you got arrested!” He had too much to ask, too much to say, too much to thank him for and too much to chastise him for.

Bokuto pulled away, his non broken hand reaching up and cupping Akaashi’s face. “I’m sorry I left you.” Even this hand had bruises on the knuckles. Akaashi could feel the tremor of pain in his fingers.

Akaashi stared at him. “L-left?”

“Yeah, this morning. I didn’t want to leave you alone in bed but I didn’t want you to stop me. Did you see my note?”

Akaashi pulled away, scowling. “What!? That’s not what I’m worried about!”

“Oh,” Bokuto blinked. “So you’re not mad?”

Akaashi smacked his chest, to which Bokuto blinked down, eyebrows raised as if unsure if the smack was meant to hurt him or not. “I’d really appreciate it,” Akaashi said, “if you’d just tell me what happened!”

Bokuto rubbed his chest, the fat pink scar from the knife wound months ago still looking as if it pained him. “Well… I couldn’t sleep. I was worried about you. Your phone kept going off and I was just going to turn it off but… I saw a bunch of texts and I…” He looked away, face transforming into that predatory fury Akaashi had seen from the police car. Up close, the intensity of it quivered down his spine and made his stomach clench with fear and something… else.

“I couldn’t just sit back and let that happen to you anymore.” Bokuto’s voice had dropped to a soft, trembling whisper.

Akaashi took his hand, the one wrapped in bandages, rubbing the knuckles with his fingers. “Thank you,” he managed to say. “Really. No one has ever… God, it was crazy, I saw him—his—” He stopped, closing his eyes at the image in his mind of Terushima’s face. “I can’t believe you did it…”

Bokuto turned his hand over, even though it pained him, and held Akaashi’s hand. “You’re not angry with me?”

Akaashi sighed. “For a moment I was… I thought you’d be taken away. I thought I’d be … alone.” He opened his eyes, looking up at him. “But you’re here.”

Bokuto watched him, allowed Akaashi to pull his hand to his cheek and press it there, closing his eyes as if he could absorb the pain. “I told you I would protect you, Keiji.”

Akaashi looked up at him, feeling ashamed as tears pooled in his eyes again until Bokuto wrapped him in his arms and held him, rubbed his back as he shook with sobs. Bokuto let him collapse against him, holding him up as his body gave into the sheer relief of the knowledge that he was free of Terushima and the agony that came with it.

“I’ve got you,” Bokuto whispered against his ear, arms tight, hand soft on his hair.

Akaashi didn’t know how long they stayed like that, wrapped around one another, just that after too long a time—too short a time—the door behind them opened and light from the kitchen came pouring in.

“Hey, you can’t just stay in here all day,” a voice said from the door.

Akaashi pulled away from Bokuto, swiping his hands across his face. He saw Kuroo silhouetted in the doorway, his pants red with black cat outlines, coat white and bright, arms folded in annoyance.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “My fault…”

“Yeah, it is,” Kuroo said sharply.

Bokuto put an arm around Akaashi’s shoulders. “Back off, Kuroo.”

Kuroo sniffed. “It’s almost five—we have to finish prep for service.”

Bokuto sighed, looking down at Akaashi. “He’s right. I have to work.”

“How? With your injured hand?” Akaashi touched it, pang of frustration when he saw how Bokuto flinched with pain.

But Bokuto brushed the pain aside with a smile. “I’ve done more with worse. I promise.”

Akaashi’s took Bokuto’s hand and pulled it to his mouth, even though the idea of where his hands had been both delighted and abhorred him. The smell of food clung to his fingers, onions, carrots, celery, fish, meat, potatoes. Akaashi loved it, and pressed his mouth to the soft muscle on his palm. “Come over tonight, okay?”

Kuroo growled from the doorway, impatient.

They both ignored him.

Bokuto smiled at Akaashi. “It will be late…”

“I’ll wait for you.”

He walked Akaashi to the front door, kissed him again, promised that he would see him before the dawn, and Akaashi left the warmth and the smells of the restaurant, the safety of Bokuto’s arms. But he wasn’t scared, now. Not anymore. Not knowing that Bokuto was there, supporting him. He didn't know if this feeling would last, but he wanted to hold onto it for as long as he could. Bokuto’s warmth clung to him, whispered his scent across his skin, following him all the way home.


	17. sachet

“Kuroo?”

He looked up at Kenma’s voice, poking through the kitchen door. “Hm?”

“Someone is here for you.”

Kuroo frowned, couldn’t think of who it could be. “What do they want?”

A man pushed through the door, right past Kenma, who gave him a glower. “Hello, hello,” the man that came through the door called out happily. “You must be the chef. Certainly look like one.” He was tall, not as tall as Kuroo, with soft fluffy brown hair and an air of confidence that made Kuroo narrow his eyes at him.

Kuroo straightened, setting aside his papers and wiping his hands on his side towel. “I’m Kuroo Tetsurou. May I help you?” The man’s voice sounded familiar but Kuroo’s brain was still on emulsification and the use of gastronomic foam, so he couldn’t quite place it.

“I’m Tooru Oikawa,” the man said, extending a hand. “You asked me to come.”

“Oh!” Kuroo gasped, taking his hand. “Yes, thank you. I’m sorry, I’ve been busy, I must have forgotten.”

Oikawa smiled, eyes shining with amusement. “Of course. The restaurant industry is a busy, busy place.”

Kuroo nodded. “I assume you know why I called you.”

Oikawa spread his hands wide, grinning. “You need me.”

Kuroo snickered. “I would like to hire you to help run the front of house. I am woefully short on personages.”

“Obviously, your curtains are dreadful.”

Kuroo resisted the urge to glare at him. “Well, come to my office and we’ll discuss—”

“—Better curtains?”

“Sure…”

 

* * *

 

At the gym, Bokuto stood catching his breath after his workout and as he watched Hinata doing pull-ups he reflected on how far the kid had come. He’d been steadily gaining muscle, just like he wanted, and he was able to consistently do the workouts Bokuto instructed him to do. He was impressed.

When Hinata was through with the exercises of the day he staggered over and plopped on the floor beside Bokuto, who was sitting on a bench and rubbing his hand.

“You okay?” Bokuto smiled down at him.

“Peachy!” Hinata gasped, then laughed. “What happened to your hand?”

Bokuto looked at his hands. They were almost healed, his knuckles the color of three week old bananas: yellow and brown, splotchy with age as pooling blood under the skin oxidized. The splint was still around his pinky, but a handful of aspirin every day helped keep the pain under control. “I hit someone.”

Hinata raised his eyebrows at him. “Really? Is that why you work out? So you can beat people up?”

“That wasn’t the initial reason I started working out…but it did come in handy.”

“I don’t think I could beat someone up,” Hinata said, staring off into space. “Seems like it’d hurt.”

“It did. You probably shouldn’t do it.”

“You did,” Hinata pointed out.

“I was under …” he paused, searching for the word, “Extreme duress.”

Hinata stood, stretching his arms, the new muscles prominent under his t-shirt, and Bokuto suddenly had an idea.

“Hey! Where do you work?”

Hinata shrugged. “Nowhere nice. I bag groceries over at Fairway.”

Bokuto smiled. “Ever wanted to work at a bar?”

“I can’t usually even get into a bar!” Hinata laughed. “That sounds awesome!”

Bokuto took out his phone and pulled up the address of _je sais pas,_ showing it to him. “You know how to get here?”

Hinata looked at the address. “Columbus Circle? Yeah, I can find it.”

“Good! What are you doing tomorrow? Come for a job interview.”

“Okay!” Hinata beamed, already excited.

 

* * *

 

Kuroo knocked on Tsukishima’s door, knowing it was too late, but also seeing light from underneath the doorway.

Tsukishima opened the door, Madame Cera padding out and purring as Kuroo scooped her up with one arm. “Can I help you?”

Kuroo smiled, admiring the soft green pajama pants he wore and holding up a bag with his free hand. “I brought late dinner.”

Tsukishima sighed but stepped back, knowing that Kuroo wouldn’t leave. Kuroo moved inside and set the bag he’d brought from his apartment on the counter. “Hungry?”

“Why are you up so late?” Tsukishima asked, taking Cera from him.

“I am a nocturnal creature.” Kuroo smiled, pulling Tupperware from the bag and turning, fingers spread. “I should ask you the same question, but first I need you to tell me where you keep your pots and pans.”

Tsukishima pointed to a cabinet and Kuroo opened it, finding shining stainless steel.

“Ohhhh,” Kuroo purred happily. “You know good equipment when you see it.”

Tsukishima stepped into his living room, the open floor plan making it easy for him to continue the conversation. “So you just stay up all night?”

“So, do you?”

Tsukishima snapped his head around, eyes narrowed. “Do you have any idea how annoying that is?”

“How many times do you think I can answer your question with one of my own?”

Tsukishima dropped onto his couch. “Why are you in my kitchen?”

“I’m making you dinner, as I said.” He set up a pot of water to boil and rooted around in the cabinets until he found a cutting board.

Tsukishima looked back over his shoulder. “What are you making?”

Kuroo grinned. “Carbohydrates with a delicious acidic sauce and protein.”

Tsukishima turned completely to frown at him. “Excuse me?”

“Bolognese.”

“Oh!” Tsukishima nodded, turning back to his laptop. “Let me know when it's done.”

Twenty minutes later they sat knee to knee with plates in their laps and the cat staring at them. Tsukishima twirled perfectly al dente pasta around a fork and ate it, humming gently.

“Well?” Kuroo asked with a grin.

Tsukishima chewed slowly and Kuroo saw a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. “It's very good,” he said. “I like the black pepper and nutmeg. It's fresh.”

Kuroo laughed, pleased. “You can taste that?”

“Well I saw you grind them.” He chuckled. “It's not much, just a hint on the back of the palate. But it's good.”

Kuroo’s chefs heart filled with pride, and his romantic heart throbbed with desire at the smile on Tsukishima’s face. “I'm so glad you like it. There's more if you want it!”

Tsukishima laughed, reaching over and plucking his wine glass from the table. Kuroo had brought a nice sweet white to drink with dinner and Tsukishima had had two glasses already. Kuroo had had three, plus sips while cooking.

It was a good wine.

“Let me eat the one bowl first, ok?”

“Mhm-hmm.” Kuroo said around a bite, “So—what else do you like?”

“What do you mean?”

“Hobbies. You're a writer, right?”

Tsukishima nodded. “Well that's my job.”

“What do you do in your free time?” Kuroo grinned, pointing his fork at him. “You have quite a collection of dinosaur stuff.”

And Kuroo was pleased to see Tsukishima’s cheeks blush a bright pink. “Uh…it's a hobby.”

Kuroo leaned forward, smiling. “Collecting things? Or studying them?”

Tsukishima glanced away. “Well… to be honest, writer wasn’t my first job choice. I just sort of fell into it.”

Kuroo ate a bite of his own, leaning on the couch and nudging Cera away with his toe when she put a paw up on the couch to sniff at his plate. “What was your first choice?”

“I wanted to be”—and here he laughed again, a little giddy with the idea—“I wanted to be a paleontologist.”

Kuroo smiled. “Ohhh, studying dinosaurs?”

“Studying fossils, but that can include dinosaurs, yes.”

“And what stopped you?”

“At the time,” Tsukishima said honestly, “I didn’t have the money.”

Kuroo blinked. “Really?” He glanced around the apartment. “Well, you seem better off now. These apartments aren’t cheap.”

“They are not.” Tsukishima admitted, taking another drink of his wine, then smiling as Kuroo helpfully refilled the glass. “I supposed I could go back to school. It’s all just so…”

“It’s a big change.”

“It is. I’m quite comfortable where I am.”

“But are you happy?”

Tsukishima gave him a halfhearted smile. “I’m not really sure how to answer that.”

Kuroo blinked, taken a bit off guard. How did one not know if one was happy?

Tsukishima looked up at him. “What about you, chef?” He said the word casually, it didn’t sound right in his mouth, somehow, but Kuroo was still pleased with it. “Are you happy?”

Kuroo hesitated, unnerved by the way Tsukishima’s lovely golden hazel eyes watched him. “I think so,” he said. “I’ve got my restaurant. I’ve got a purpose. I’ve got a plan. I’m sitting here, eating delicious authentic Italian with a handsome man.”

Tsukishima laughed. “You’re…”

“Handsome?” Kuroo leaned forward, pulling the empty bowl from Tsukishima’s lap. “Clever? Romantic?”

Tsukishima didn’t lean away, and up close Kuroo saw the slight pink hue of his cheeks, the flecks of amber in his eyes. “Not so romantic as all that,” he said it with a smile, though.

“What?” Kuroo set their plates aside, moving so their legs touched. “I made you a midnight bolognese. If that isn’t romantic, I don’t know what is.”

Tsukishima reached up with his slender hand, tracing Kuroo’s collarbone under his t-shirt, inching the pad of his thumb up to touch Kuroo’s pulse and making Kuroo swallow his nerves. “You didn’t even put out candles. How romantic could you possibly be?” But his tongue poked out, touching his lips, his eyes resting on Kuroo’s mouth.

So Kuroo closed the distance, pressing their lips together—with more force than necessary because he was pleasantly drunk, but Tsukishima’s hand tightened around the back of his neck and pulled him even closer.

Tsukishima groaned softly, shifting so he could lay back on the couch, pulling Kuroo with him. “It’s late,” he whispered between kisses, fingers tangling deep in Kuroo’s hair.

“Mhm-hmm.” Kuroo hummed, mouthing at his throat, nipping at his racing pulse so he squirmed underneath him.

“Stay…” Tsukishima moaned, which turned into a whine when Kuroo lay his weight on him, pressing their bodies together—and Kuroo was grateful that they were both wearing thin pants.

Kuroo groaned, loud. “ _Mon petit chou, j’ai envie de toi…_ ”

Tsukishima actually laughed, pulling away and looking at him. “ _Je ne parle pas français._ ” But he said it in a lovely French way and Kuroo kissed him again, to taste it, to teach his tongue the way of the language of love. After a long, languid kiss Tsukishima pushed his face away. “Wait,” he said, pulling his glasses off and setting them on the coffee table. “Hey, Cera, off!” But Kuroo kissed him again, the corner of his mouth, trailing kisses up to his ear and he forgot the cat. “I—I’m not small,” he said as Kuroo pushed his hands up under his shirt.

“Mhm?”

“You said—mhm Jesus, that feels good— _petit._ I’m taller than you.”

Kuroo pulled away, mouth tingling from where it had just been on Tsukishima’s chest. “Are you serious?”

Tsukishima’s smile was wide and pleased with himself. “ _Oui._ ”

Kuroo rolled his eyes, searching his brain for a moment. “ _Alors…_ ” He leaned forward, his tongue trailing up Tsukishima’s ear, making him shiver and clutch his fingers at the hem of Kuroo’s pants. “I shall call you _mon chaton._ ”

“What’s that?” Tsukki groaned softly as Kuroo’s teeth tugged at his earlobe, then Kuroo dropped his head to press against Tsukishima’s shoulder, moaning as Tsukishima’s fingers slipped inside his pants, clutching at him.

“Tell you later,” Kuroo gasped, turning to catch him in a kiss again.

 

* * *

 

Kuroo and Oikawa stood in the gutted disaster area that was the dining room of _je sais pas._ Kuroo was beside himself with worry, scared that they’d never get the place up and running by the weekend. He loathed the fact that they’d had to close for so long this early in their life as a fully functioning restaurant, and he couldn’t even call it a relaunch because they hadn’t been _open_ long enough, anyway. They’d had to close for several days already and his insides were tingling with the money lost—and money spent.

And still, here Oikawa was, asking for _more_ money.

“Just a bit,” he was saying. “We need a new paint for the walls.” It’s not like Kuroo didn’t have the money, the restaurant had done well in the months it had been open. But he didn’t have money to _blow_ , that’s for damn sure.

Kuroo stared around, not-so-fondly remembering how the restaurant looked like this when he’d first begun his own renovations. “I like my paint,” he said, but unsure, as if suddenly the paint had done something to offend him but he couldn’t quite figure out what.

Oikawa turned a _look_ on him that said everything from _how dare you_ to _oh you poor sweet thing_. “It’s not the most flattering shade of red. Just like those hideous curtains.”

Kuroo mumbled, “What the hell’s wrong with my curtains…”

But Oikawa was continuing as if he hadn’t heard him: “Look, you’ve got so much potential here. Don’t use curtains at all, the light from the wall to wall windows will really brighten the place up. The tables will be this lovely shade of light wood, and the floors are already nice. There’s this one specific white paint I’m thinking of for the walls—it’s sort of an all purpose white, an off white that isn’t _really_ white but still a soft white.”

Kuroo squinted at him. “Tell me, Oikawa, is it white or not white? I’m riveted.”

Oikawa rolled his eyes, his smile unperturbed by Kuroo’s frustration. “It’s called _Mountain Air_ and it’s got just a”—he held his fingers close together—“ _tiny touch_ of blue. You barely even notice it. It’s more like the suggestion of blue. I’ve got swatches somewhere.” He dug through the papers he’d spread out on one of the tables, then frowned, looking up towards the bar. “Hey, shrimpy, come here.”

The red headed boy ( _man_ , Kuroo corrected, _he’s twenty-four even if he looks fifteen)_ raised his head from cleaning the cooler at the bar. “Me?”

Hinata Shouyou had been working at the restaurant for all of two weeks, and Kuroo was still on the fence about him. He wasn’t exactly the most graceful of barmen and had dropped several glasses already, but luckily none had been during service so… Kuroo wasn’t inclined to fire him yet. Bokuto had recommended him and since they really _did_ need a new barman, he’d hired him without much thought, trusting Bokuto to not bring a vagrant in to work with them.

“Yes,” Oikawa said, opening the bag he’d dumped in the chair and digging through it. “I need you to get something for me.” Hinata came around the bar to them, cleaning his hands on a towel, and Oikawa handed him a set of keys. “Go to the alley and get the binder out of my trunk. It’s under the fabric swatches. Make sure you don’t stain them as you move them. And lay them flat when you put them back.”

Hinata blinked at the bundle of keys in his hands, then at Oikawa. “Car, trunk, binder. Got it,” and he stepped away, muttering about fabrics as he stepped out the door.

Kuroo raised an eyebrow at Oikawa. “So… you hate my curtains. You hate my paint. You don’t like my chairs—”

“I don’t hate them. But we’re going to get some cushions for them or something.”

“You’ve already re-sanded all my tables. Is there anything you _like_ about the decorations?”

Oikawa looked around, humming a bit. “The bar is nice.”

Kuroo threw his eyes up towards the ceiling, exasperated. The bar had been here when he’d bought it. “Fine. Look,” he reached into his pocket, finding his wallet and thumbing out the restaurants credit card, “just don’t spend too much.” He held it out, then pulled it away when Oikawa reached for it. “And bring receipts for _everything._ ”

“Mhm-hmm,” Oikawa acknowledged. “Every little thing, of course.”

“Even if it’s a _spoon_.”

“Oh!” Oikawa grinned. “No, I like your cutlery.”

Kuroo scoffed, handing it to him and watching with a nervous flutter of his stomach as Oikawa slid it in a pocket of his bag.

“I’m also going to have a class for the front of house staff,” Oikawa told him, pulling out fat little handmade booklets. “I’m famous for my _Remarkable Service_ class.” He winked, showing Kuroo the book. It had an elegant picture of a table setting on it and Kuroo took it so he could thumb through it, impressed despite himself at the detail that went into the thing. “Not only do the graduates of my class know the finer points of being a professional server, they all learn consistency and the minute nuances of body language. It’s a guarantee of at least a thirty percent raise in tips for each one of my students after they master my class,” he said it all proudly, smiling to himself.

“If that’s true, I’m sure my staff will be happy to take your… course.” Kuroo took a moment to look more fully at the book, at the diagrams of table settings, pictures of elegantly folded napkins, and tables of information packed into it. It even had a section on wine and bar service, including tips on how to tell a customer’s blood alcohol level and a general, basic guide on wine pairing with foods. “Actually, can I have this?” he asked, thinking that if his staff was going to learn these things, he’d need to learn it too. He probably didn’t have time to take the _class_ (he couldn’t believe Oikawa called it a _class_ ) but he could at least read through the book.

Oikawa gave him a simpering smile. “It’s fifteen dollars.”

Kuroo shot him an equally simpering glare. “Put it on the card,” he said.

Hinata came back through the door at that moment, just as Oikawa let out a high, loud laugh. He brought the gargantuan binder over and heaved it onto the table. “What’s in this thing?”

“The colors of life,” Oikawa told them, picking it up with practiced effort and flipping it open. “I’ve got the swatch here somewhere… ah! Here we go.” He pulled out _one_ color card out of the hundreds in the binder and held it out to Kuroo for his inspection.

Kuroo took it and frowned at it. It looked like white to him. Hinata leaned over and Kuroo showed him the card as he said, “It’s white.”

“Pah!” Oikawa snatched it away. “You have to look harder than that.” He held the card up to the light coming in through the windows, turning it this way and that. “You see? When the light hits it _just_ right, there’s the breath of blue.”

Kuroo and Hinata exchanged glances and shrugs. “Sure,” Kuroo allowed, “as long as it looks good. Fine.”

Oikawa sighed, looking forlorn. “You kitchen people never understand the finer points of service.”

“I’ll set up a day for the servers to come in for your _class_ ,” Kuroo said, then looked at Hinata. “You and Kenma, too. Can you do it before we reopen?”

“It’s a three day class,” Oikawa said, thinking, pulling out a calendar and opening it to this month. Kuroo saw that nearly every day was scribbled with color coded ink and sticky notes. “But I think we can squeeze it in.” His phone rang with a call coming through and he smiled to himself, a more pure smile than any of the ones Kuroo had seen on his face so far. “Ah, that’s my husband,” he told them, picking up the phone and saying quickly, “He’s been in California for _weeks_ touring vineyards. You can’t imagine how lonely I’ve been.” He turned away, putting the phone to his ear as he walked away. “Hajime! There you are. I miss you, how are you?”

Kuroo picked up the discarded color swatch and slid it back into its place in the binder. “Are you finding everything okay so far?” he asked Hinata.

“Oh, yeah. I mean—the drinks are sorta hard to remember, but Kenma’s a good teacher.”

“Is he now?” Kuroo chuckled, flipping through the vast number of colors out of sheer curiosity. Oikawa had them stuffed into the binder like collectible baseball cards. “I would never have guessed. He wasn’t good at teaching me math in high school even though he had great grades.”

Hinata laughed, smiling fondly. “Well, maybe he’s changed since then.” He paused, pressing his fingers together and glancing away nervously. “So… you guys have been friends a long time, right?”

“Mhm-hmm,” Kuroo said absently, still flipping. Christ, there were six pages of white.

“Uhm… so… what would you recommend… I mean—” Hinata faltered, tripping over his words so that Kuroo actually looked over at him. He was flushed red from his hairline to the collar of his shirt and Kuroo squinted at him, curious and wary now.

“Spit it out, kid.”

“Not—” Hinata sighed. “Okay. Okay. He’s asked me on a date and I’m wondering what we’re doing and if you have any idea because he won’t tell me anything and I’m really nervous and I just want him to be happy and I don’t want to screw it up,” he blurted in a rush of air.

Kuroo _stared_ at him, brain halting on the word _date_ and not going any further. He felt his mouth hanging open. “He _what!?_ ” He turned his head, shocked, unable to believe it, searching for Kozume but not seeing him. He must be in the kitchen or the dish room. He had to find him, to ask, to make sure.

Hinata was panicking, shaking his head, waving his hands. “Is that bad!?”

“No!” Kuroo practically shouted. “No, it’s not! Sorry…” He took a moment to take a breath, calming himself. “No, no. It’s—gosh, that’s great.”

Hinata stared wide eyed at him. “Uhm…. so, you’re not, like, mad?”

“No! Of course not. Why would I be mad?” Kuroo smiled, pleased. He had spent little time with Hinata himself, but he and Kenma had been spending many hours a day working together, so surely Kenma would know if Hinata was dangerous or something. Kenma was notoriously good at reading people. If he liked Hinata, that was good enough for Kuroo, too.

“I dunno,” Hinata was saying, “Frat—…fraternity?”

Kuroo squinted at him, amused. “Fraternizing?”

“Yes! Since we work together.”

Kuroo’s smile widened. “And technically he’s your boss.” He shook his head. “No, that’s fine. I don’t care. He deserves something to make him happy.”

Hinata’s own smile practically blinded Kuroo. “Really!? Great! So—what should I _do?_ Like, what’s he like outside work?”

Kuroo laughed, patting him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, he’s easy to talk to. He doesn’t like crowds, though. Or movie theaters. But he loves films, I’ll text you some of his favorites. He will act indecisive but he always knows what he wants, just be gentle about coaxing it out of him. He won’t tell you when he’s tired, but you can see it in his eyes so make sure you don’t keep him out too late. He can only stay up late for video games, apparently. He doesn’t really like PDA, so don’t try to do anything in public unless he initiates it.” He paused, thinking about some of the things of his best friend that _might_ be helpful and finding himself simply rambling from his years of memories: “Don’t start a TV show without committing to it. He’ll finish it without you and accidentally spoil the ending, then tell you it’s your fault for leaving to go to work when there was still so much show to watch. He loves cats, and he’s got three of them. They all look exactly the same but don’t tell him that, he’ll get mad. Their names are Zelda, Link, and Ganon—and you can totally tell them apart by their personality. Trust me, Ganon is a _shit_ and I’ve had to resist punting him across the room several times.”

Hinata was staring wide eyed at him and Kuroo laughed. “Just… be yourself. If Koz has asked you on a date that means he likes you and I’m sure he’ll tell you if you do something he doesn’t like.”

Hinata nodded, then they both looked over at the sound of the port door opening and the man himself stepped out, his ponytail a bit disheveled from the moist heat of the dish room and carrying a box of clean glasses. He stopped when he saw them looking and narrowed his eyes, considering them.

“What?” Kuroo grinned, ebullient at the thought of one of his best friends _dating_. Kenma was picky, and that was the understatement of the century.

“Why are you staring at me?”

Hinata pulled away from Kuroo, laughing nervously. He’d have to get better at hiding his inner thoughts, Kuroo thought, it was _obvious_ they’d been talking about him by the blushing of his face. “Nothing!” his voice was high and breathy with nerves.

Kenma rolled his eyes, turning away and dropping the box on the bar. “Help me hang these up,” he said, voice soft but carrying well across the dining room.

Kuroo patted Hinata on the back as he moved past him. “Good luck.” He couldn’t resist winking at Kenma as he stepped into the kitchen, and chuckled at the cutting look Kenma shot towards Hinata as he realized what Kuroo had said and quickly deduced the topic of their conversation.

“Kuroo!” Bokuto and Yamamoto shouted simultaneously as he entered the kitchen, making him start in surprise. He took a hasty step back as they both rushed him, holding up a sauce pot each with a spoon full of their contents held up to Kuroo’s face like parents feeding their infant. They talked over each other:

“Bro, try this! It’s better than his—”

“Don’t—no, this is better! It’s a spicy harissa sauce for that chicken dish—”

“No, that’s gross! Stop it! Dude, this is _much_ better—fresh cheese and some of those tomatoes you got at the market last week!”

Kuroo held up his hands, backing up until his back hit the wall and laughing nervously, feeling attacked as they followed him with their spoons. “Guys, guys, let’s calm—”

“Try it!”

Kuroo ducked away, feeling like a fugitive and rushing around them, practically running to the safety of the pastry shop where Yaku’s aura would protect him. Sure enough, the two of them stopped at the doorway, staring in the tiny window at him like hungry animals trapped in a cage and Kuroo was the last scrap of meat they’d ever see. Yaku would demolish them if they stormed into his pastry shop—he didn’t like too many people in the small space, especially too many _loud_ people who liked to use his brick oven for their own pizza-making purposes.

Lev looked up from rolling out pastry dough. “Chef?”

Kuroo still had the little booklet from Oikawa in his hand and stuffed it into his pocket. “Hey, uh…” He shot a desperate glance at the door; it was practically fogged up with Bokuto and Yamamoto’s breaths as they stared at him. “Need help?”

Yaku looked over from making something on the induction burner. They must be making themselves lunch, and it smelled delicious: the light scent of cooking beef and garlic floating from the pan. “What are you hiding from now?”

“I dunno,” Kuroo told him, going to wash his hands at the sink in the corner, choosing the one on the same wall as the door so that he could avoid the gazes of his sauce stalkers, “but Bo and Tora are competing again and I’d rather stay out of it till they’ve calmed down.”

“Oh,” Yaku said, “they’re arguing over the best sauce for that chicken dish you wanted to put on the menu.”

Kuroo blinked then sighed, regretting his open invitation for anyone to make a sauce for it earlier that morning. It had been a passing, rushed thought as Oikawa had come in with armfuls of papers and plans to go over with him. “Ah… well, maybe they can figure out which is better without me.”

Yaku snorted in derision. “Fat chance. Those two muscle heads barely have a brain between them. And the brain they do have is stuffed full of bravado.”

At the counter Lev giggled and said, “Maybe we can set up a judging contest!”

Kuroo looked over at him as he dried his hands. “That’s a fine idea. Once they calm their asses down I’ll suggest it.” He moved to stand beside Lev and asked, “So, if I help, can I have some?”

They grinned at him and Lev nodded happily. “Sure, sure. This is actually my grandmother’s recipe for piroshki!” He beamed, pleased that he could bring something delicious to the kitchen. Yaku took his pan to the sink to drain the meat then tossed it in a bowl with fluffy white rice.

“Mhm,” Kuroo hummed, stomach growling. “Hell yeah. Come on, the faster we make these the faster we can eat.”

Lev’s delighted smile was infectious. He was clearly beside himself with glee at Kuroo joining them _and_ being happy with his work. Yaku came over and set the bowl between them and, after an unnecessary but excitable explanation from Lev on how to fill the small pastry balls, they all set to work in a comfortable rhythm.

 

* * *

 

On a Wednesday morning, Bokuto went downstairs on his way to the restaurant and found a man standing at the mailboxes in the lobby. Bokuto was going to ignore him but as he passed he saw that _his_ mailbox was open.

He stopped, blinking at the man for a stunned moment. Then he pointed at him, throwing his bag down. “You!” he shrieked, loud, too loud, causing the man to jump in surprise and turn to stare at him. “You’re the coupon thief!”

The man glanced at the boxes, then folded the coupons—Bokuto’s coupons!—into a small square and slipped them in his pocket. “Hey, dude. You the new tenant?”

Bokuto stomped over to him, hand held out. “Give them back! What the fuck? Use your own coupons!”

The man, dirty blonde hair and slick green eyes, held up his hands in mock surrender, the sly smile never leaving his face. “Yooooo,” he said in a slow drawl, “chill, it’s okay. I just want a few of them. You can have the others back.”

“N-No!” Bokuto spluttered, out of his mind with frustration. “They’re mine! And I use all of them!”

“Oh.” The man looked away, touching his chin in thought. “Well… I feel like I want them more than you.”

Bokuto blinked, his brain snapping in a full stop. “I—…. I beg your pardon?”

“Well—look—my old friend used to have your room and she let me use hers so I just thought you’d let me too.”

Bokuto waved his arms about, distraught. “That doesn’t mean you can just take mine!” He moved forward, digging his hands in the man’s pockets—the man yelping with indignation—snatching his coupons back. “Use your own!”

“I don’t get any where I live….”

“Well you’re shit out of luck!” Bokuto unfolded the coupon page, frowning when he saw that his favorites were gone. “You took my Kool-Aid one! Give it back!”

The man groaned. “Aw, man, come on! Maybe we can share them?”

Bokuto snapped, “They’re mine!”

“Sharing is caring.” The man winked. “Oh! I’m Konoha, by the way.”

Bokuto squinted at him. “I’m _You Better Not Take My Coupons Again.”_ He nodded resoundingly, then turned and stomped out, pausing at the door and looking back. “Try 8C, I don’t think they care.”

 

* * *

 

Akaashi stood at the door to _je sais pas,_ nervous and a bit scared. Bokuto had invited him for lunch and, while he'd tried to get out of it, Bokuto had been insistent. He held his phone to his ear, waiting until it clicked through. “I'm here.”

On the other end of the line he heard the clatter of a kitchen: dishes being set down, the clink of utensils, the sizzle of hot pans. “Great!” Bokuto said. “Be right there.” And after a moment of unsure waiting, Akaashi leaning against the brick, shivering a bit in the brisk early October wind, Bokuto unlocked the door and waved him in. “Hey! How's your day so far?” Bokuto hugged him close, kissing him when he raised his face.

“Fine.” Akaashi smiled, stomach twisting at the smells of cooking food.

“I made you something!” Bokuto said excitedly, taking Akaashi's hand and pulling him to a table.

“Really, Bo, you shouldn't have. I'm okay just spending time with you.” But Akaashi allowed himself to be taken to a corner and set at the table.

Bokuto leaned down and kissed him, sliding his fingers through his hair, a bit sticky with product from his modeling earlier in the day. “Be right back, ok?”

Akaashi smiled, touching his wrist, and Bokuto slipped away, back into the kitchen. He looked around and noticed how much the restaurant had changed in the few weeks since he’d last been here after Bokuto’s arrest. The floors had been replaced, the tables refinished, the curtains replaced. The restaurant looked nice, more elegant than it had since its inception. The _sommelier_ that Bokuto had told him about seemed to have done his job. Just sitting in the empty restaurant, other than a small orange haired man cleaning glasses while chatting to the cat eyed blonde haired man at the bar, the whole place had a sense of closeness and warmth about it.

Bokuto came back carrying a plate in one hand and two wine glasses in the other filled with a bubbling white wine. “So, Kuroo’s on this Italian kick—he wants to do a pasta menu over the winter or something—so we’ve got ravioli.” He set the plate down and, even against his will, Akaashi leaned forward to smell it.

It looked delicious: a thick white sauce spooned around stuffed green tinted ravioli. Akaashi’s mouth watered even as his mind told him _danger danger danger._ “What is it?”

Bokuto sat across from him, passing him the wine and picking up a fork he’d brought. “Spinach ravioli with goat cheese and a cream walnut sauce.” He poked one of them with a fork, then cut it in quarters and swirled it all around the sauce. “Here, open up.”

Akaashi frowned. “I don’t need you to feed me,” but he leaned forward, because he knew Bokuto would insist.

Bokuto smiled, moving the fork so that Akaashi could take the food from it. “I know you can, but I want to. You take so long to eat and I’ve only got like ten minutes. Do you like it?”

Akaashi sat back, touching his mouth, chewing. Dammit, everything Bokuto made him was delicious. The goat cheese was tangy and soft, there was just the smallest hint of spice in the sauce, and the sweet spinach that was tucked in the pasta was—he groaned a little. “It’s very good,” he managed to say after he’d swallowed.

“Good!” Bokuto prepared another bite and held it up. “I think I’m going to start making you dinner every day. Like… things that I can make for you and you can just put in the oven to heat up or something. For the days I can’t come over.”

Akaashi hesitated, unsure. “A-Are you… No, Bo, that’s alright. I don’t need you to—”

Bokuto held the fork up, insistent, and Akaashi was compelled to take another bite. He sighed at how good it was, finding more with this new bite to like about it, his stomach begging for more as his brain screamed at him to stop.

“Nonsense,” Bokuto said, pushing the fork around the plate, already ( _too soon,_ Akaashi’s mind scolded him) making another bite. “You’ve lost weight since I’ve known you… and it worries me.”

Akaashi felt the food in his stomach roll with fear. Bokuto was wrong. He’d gained weight. Fuck. Fuck fuck _fuck._ He must have been silent for too long—how long, _oh God_ —for Bokuto was talking.

“I want to make you some good stuff for you to eat, cause I think you don’t like food very much… but maybe it’s just because you haven’t had much good food?” Bokuto looked up at him, smiling, tapping the fork on the edge of the plate. “I want to make you fall in love with me… through my food.”

Akaashi blinked, blushing, a bit taken aback. “You don’t need food to do that, Koutarou. I love you all by yourself.”

Bokuto looked like he was going to internally combust, his smile stretched so wide. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Akaashi laughed, leaning on the table, picking up the wine and swirling it around the glass. “Of course… you saved my life. You mean everything to me. I can’t imagine living without you.”

Bokuto shifted his chair so he was right beside Akaashi. He set the plate down and put an arm around him, cupping his chin and pulling his mouth up and kissing him. Akaashi leaned against him, happily distracted, glad that Bokuto was using his mouth for something other than feeding him. After several minutes, Akaashi’s head lightheaded and pleasantly buzzing from Bokuto’s mouth, Bokuto pulled away, kissing his forehead. “I love you so much, Keiji…”

Akaashi leaned on his shoulder, closing his eyes and trying to control the cold that seeped into his heart at his new thought. “Bokuto… I have to tell you. You don’t have to worry about …. him anymore.”

“Hm?” Bokuto leaned his cheek on Akaashi’s heat then pulled the plate over, wanting to feed him again but Akaashi pulled away, feeling sick. Bokuto noticed and instead ate the ravioli himself in one big bite.

Akaashi sighed, hands on the table, digging his fingernail into his cuticle until Bokuto reached over and stopped him. Akaashi pressed his tongue against his teeth, hard, and managed to say, “Terushima. You don’t have to worry about him anymore. He won’t press charges or anything… from what I understand. I guess he doesn’t think he’d win a lawsuit since…” He swallowed hard, his hands trembling so that Bokuto tucked him close under his shoulder, holding him tight. “Someone… sent in the pictures he took… there were other models he was hurting. They’re suing him.”

Bokuto was quiet, chewing as he thought. “What about you?”

“I just want to be done with it…” He inhaled slowly, shuddering. “The other people at his parties are being sought out. He wasn’t very clever about hiding his perversions. There’s … books with names and dates. They’ll be dealt with, too.”

Bokuto rubbed one hand up and down his arm, soothing him. “Are you going to be okay?”

Akaashi shrugged. “I have to be. I… just worry… because everything will be public for his trial. I don’t want … people to know about me.”

“Akaashi, it’s not your fault—you shouldn’t—” He huffed, getting angry like he always did at the mention of the photographer. “Unless you give your permission, they shouldn’t show anything that isn’t related to the models that are suing him. That’s what the tv shows always say, anyway.”

“I hope so…”

Bokuto touched his hair. “We can go away, if you want.”

Akaashi had to laugh, shakily. “What?”

“I’ll take you away while this is all going on. We could go home to my parents house. They’d love to meet you.”

Akaashi blinked. “What—really?”

“Yeah! We’d have to fly down to Georgia, but I could show you all the cool stuff in Atlanta. We’ve got this big ass aquarium, lots of gardens, oh! and the _World of Coca-Cola!_ ”

Akaashi pulled away, laughing softly. “Wait—you’re from Atlanta?” He’d known Bokuto was from somewhere down South, because of his accent, but he’d never actually gotten around to picking a city in his head.

Bokuto blinked. “Yeah?”

“I just never thought about—”

A man came out of the port door, clearing his throat. Bokuto looked back, saying, “Back to work?”

The man nodded. “Sorry.” Then he stepped back in the kitchen when Bokuto waved a hand at him.

“Who was that?” Akaashi asked, curious, even as he stood from the table and pulled his jacket on.

“That’s Inuoka, he’s the one that sorta took over my station when I got demoted.” Bokuto stood, finishing his wine in a big drink and taking up the plate and silverware.

“So your boss is still mad? I thought you said it was temporary? It’s been like three weeks.”

Bokuto sighed. “Yeah… it is. Kuroo promises me that I’ll get my position back soon. The re-review is coming up soon so I’ve got to get ready for that. Inuoka is good… but Kuroo doesn’t trust him as much, I don’t think.”

Akaashi stepped close, standing on his toes and kissing Bokuto’s cheek since his hands were full with dirty dishes. “I’m back at the bar tonight, will you come when you get off?”

“We could go get Thai food?” Bokuto smiled, shifting the dishes to one hand so he could give Akaashi a one armed hug.

Akaashi grimaced. “Is food all you think about?”

“Food and you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French Translations - 
> 
> j'ai envie de toi - i want/need you (>u> dirty meaning, OBVIOUSLY)  
> Je ne parle pas français - I don't speak French  
> mon petit chou and mon chaton are just cute nicknames. Chaton is, more or less, kitten/kitty, though. I crack myself up, y'all. So clever. (not)


	18. bearding

Tsukishima pressed his face into his pillow. “Stop touching me.” He heard Kuroo chuckle beside him, and felt Kuroo’s hand slide gently over his skin, tickling ever so slightly as it traced the line of his shoulder blade.

“You should wake up,” Kuroo said, leaning down to kiss his back. His hair brushed softly over Tsukishima’s neck, making him shiver.

“It’s barely morning.”

“Early to rise…” Kuroo quoted, and Tsukishima could feel his lips stretch into a sleepy morning smile.

Tsukishima turned his face to look at Kuroo out of the corner of his eye. Without his glasses the world was slightly out of focus but Kuroo was so close it didn’t matter, and Tsukishima could clearly see the stormy grey color of his eyes. “The saying is ‘early to bed and early to rise makes a man happy, healthy, and wise.’ You did not let me go to bed early so you have no business waking me up early.”

Kuroo chuckled but turned and flopped back, stretching his arms over his head. “That’s the unfortunate sleeping habits of chefs and writers.”

Tsukishima sighed, sitting up and rubbing his face. He had spent all evening writing in his office and when Kuroo had come, bringing heaping plates of food from his restaurant, they had spent half the night just spending time together. Other than the argument of how fat Cera was getting, and how it was Kuroo’s fault, it was another happy evening. They spent most of their nights together now, at one apartment or the other depending on if Kuroo cooked food or brought some home. Tsukishima hadn’t spent so much time with another person since high school and his friendship with friend Yamaguchi and his girlfriend, a soft spoken and kind hearted girl named Yachi.

He and his high school friends still spent time together even now, but did it in restaurants and bars, doing adult activities instead of simply spending time together. They’d never spent it pressed close on the couch watching television with a( _“Noticeably fatter” “No, happily well fed”_ ) cat fighting for their affection. But Tsukishima was happier now than he’d been in a long time.

“Mhm, maybe, but we have to sleep sometimes,” he said, reaching for his glasses and sliding them on his face.

“Not now, though.” Kuroo flung himself out of bed, striding to the bathroom to find his discarded clothes from the night before. “We’ve got an appointment to keep.”

Tsukishima turned to frown at him. “Appointment?” He paused, then asked, “Wait, we?”

 

* * *

 

They went to a house in the suburbs and straight into the backyard, Kuroo moving towards a large wooden shed.

“Kuroo,” Tsukishima asked nervously, “why are we here?”

“I’ve got to pick up some stuff. Ah, here he is.” He waved towards a man that came out of the house, ash blond and striding towards them.

Tsukishima frowned at Kuroo. “I assume you know him since we’re basically trespassing in his yard.”

Kuroo winked at him then as the man came upon them said, “Hey, good to see you again.”

The man smiled back. “Kuroo, hello. Who’s this?”

Kuroo waved a hand between them. “Tsukki, this is—”

“Please don’t call me that.”

“This is Eita Semi, President of one of many beekeeping associations here in the city.”

Semi grinned and they shook hands. “I’m sorry, what’s your…”

Tsukishima shot Kuroo an annoyed look and said, “Kei Tsukishima, pleasure.”

“Same.”

Kuroo flapped his hands impatiently. “So! Semi, do you have what I asked for?”

Semi nodded, unlocking the door and waving them inside. “Yes, it’s all packaged and ready to go. I also have some samples for you guys, too. And I think you’ll like—”

Kuroo made a shushing motion. He glanced at Tsukishima, his eyes glinting and lips curling with a smirk that made Tsukishima nervous. “That’s a surprise.”

Inside the shed it was full of jars and metal equipment, dark and warm and smelling of summer. It reminded him of the honey shed on Ushijima’s farm. He said as much and Kuroo laughed. “Because that’s exactly what it is.”

Semi said, “Oh, you’ve met Tendou? He’s fun. I really like him. Good with bees.”

Tsukishima felt something weigh down his insides. More bees?

Semi, not knowing about Tsukishima’s internal struggle of the tiny creatures, ushered them towards a table where small bear shaped bottles were laid out in rows, at least twenty bottles. “So, here’s what you’re getting, Kuroo. These are samples I’ve made of each.” He plucked two tiny plastic spoons from a cup and handed one to each of them.

“Wait,” Tsukishima said as he stared at the sheer number of different colored honey bottles, “where are your bees? I didn’t see any in the yard.”

Semi smiled, adjusting the bottles on the table. “They’re all over the city. I’ve got hives on rooftops, in community gardens, and I’ve got permits with the city to have some in parks. They’re everywhere. Really, the city is a wonderful place to have bees, there’s so much life here, they can find pollen in nearly every nook and cranny.” His voice was fast and excitable, his passion obvious in each word. “And each hive makes different flavors of honey depending on where they live, it’s fascinating to think about. You can taste where they’re from if you know the city well.” He picked up a very pale yellow honey and put a drop each on their spoons. “For instance, tell me what this tastes like.”

He waited with a smile as they tasted it, and Tsukishima blinked in surprise when he did. It was very sweet, with the slightest hint of…. Something. He frowned, trying to place it. Finally, because both Semi and Kuroo were giving him wide, knowing smiles, he guessed, “Mint? What, is there a mint factory somewhere in the city that I’m unaware of?”

Kuroo laughed aloud and Semi shook his head. “No. Close, but no. This honey comes from East Village in Manhattan. The plethora of planter boxes in all those windows will always give it a strange, all encompassing flavor, but there’s also linden trees, which makes a very sweet, minty honey. If all they had were these trees, the honey would be a water-white color, very very pale. As it stands, though, the pollen from the other fruit trees and flowers gives it some color.”

Tsukishima pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, chasing that flavor as it vanished. “Fascinating.”

“Oh, that’s just the beginning.” Kuroo smiled at him. His excitement, too, was palpable.

Semi put another, slightly darker but still very pale blob on their spoons. After they tasted it (heavy in flavor, something earthy and tingling on Tsukishima’s tongue) he told them it was from Brooklyn, and the flavor was mostly from the echinacea flowers from Prospect Park. The honey they spent half an hour tasting varied in color, flavor, and texture, some of it noticeably thicker and more crystallized than others. The flavors ranged from the light, airy, fruity flavors of the South Bronx botanical gardens, to honey was so sweet it was almost acidic, and some was so dark and nutty it had an aftertaste of butter. There was early season honey from clovers in gardens all over Bushwick, and late fall honey from goldenrod flowers in Central Park. Orange tasting honey, honey that bounced around the tongue from the Brownstones of the Upper West side, flavored with azaleas, rhododendrons, and lilacs. And from the rooftop vegetable gardens of the Bronx came a honey with a perfectly golden color, so many flavors in one spoonful it was impossible to taste them all, even for Tsukishima.

Each honey was entirely different, and as Semi explained where each came from, Tsukishima began to understand the appeal of coming here. Kuroo was fascinated with each one, asking extra questions about them and filing away the information for later use.

Later, Kuroo explained why as they loaded boxes laden with all the honey into Tsukishima’s car (because of course Kuroo didn’t have a car and apparently Tsukishima was his designated driver, now) that he wanted to make a menu based entirely around the history of honey. Making whole wheat flatbreads like the Egyptians did and having crystallized honey to dip it in in reference to the ancient pharaohs; Greek honey cakes; a Jewish apple and honey dish to celebrate Rosh Hashanah; and dishes that simply celebrated honey—roast chicken with honey glaze, oatmeal bars with honey, honey candies and mead. Always mead.

It all sounded very enticing, and when Tsukishima said as much Kuroo gave him the biggest smile. “So you’ll come eat it when I’m done? You’ll come to the restaurant?”

Tsukishima hesitated, trying to give Kuroo a genuine smile back. “Yes, of course. I’d love to.”

Kuroo slipped his fingers around Tsukishima’s wrist, holding him gently. “That makes me very happy. But you should come earlier. I haven’t decided if next season I’m going to do this honey thing or the Italian menu I’m planning… but that’s so far away. I want you to come soon, okay?”

Tsukishima glanced around, but Semi had gone back to his house to retrieve something, so he leaned forward and kissed Kuroo, and was surprised that he could still taste honey on his lips. “I will. I’m very excited about it, too.”

Kuroo’s face lit up with joy. “Perfect.”

As he moved to kiss Kuroo again, the door of the house closed loudly and Tsukishima jumped, pulling away with a blush.

Kuroo said, “Where are we going?”

“Not far,” Semi replied, unlocking his own truck which was painted with jars of honey and little buzzing bees to advertise his business. “Just follow me.”

As they drove through the city Tsukishima asked, “What are we doing?”

“It’s a surprise. But it’s really, really cool. You’ll hate it at first, but it’s worth it and you’ll love it afterwards.”

His stomach flipped uncomfortably and he tried to glare at Kuroo while not driving into people, dogs, signs posts, or trees. “Are you serious?”

Kuroo pointed out the front window. “Watch, watch, jaywalker!”

 

* * *

 

The three men stood together on the rooftop overlooking the city. It was warm and hot, the summer sun clinging even as autumn rolled upon them. Tsukishima eyed the other two men with wariness, and considered flinging himself off the high roof in an act of self-preservation.

Kuroo and Semi stood together over a box that hummed with its contents. They spoke in low, soft voices as Semi squeezed the small smoking equipment that released a sweet smelling scent of pine and wood smoke into the box. He handed it to Kuroo so he could turn to Tsukishima and smiled. “Ready?”

Tsukishima shook his head. “Do I have to?

Kuroo laughed softly, careful not to make his voice too loud and disturb the bees that flew around them. They were everywhere, flying in arcs and whorls, buzzing and humming, vibrating the air with their wings as they searched for their queen. “I think you’ll like it once you get over your fear. I promise you won’t get stung.”

Semi glanced at him, then shrugged at Tsukishima’s questioning eyebrow raise. “You probably won’t get stung,” he amended, and reached for Tsukishima’s hand before he could protest. He pulled his wrist up, taking a small bottle from his pocket and dabbing a drop of liquid onto his wrist. “This is the queen’s scent. They’ll look for it and land on you. I’ve fed them sugar-syrup over the last day or so, and they’ve been separated from hive and queen—”

“Won’t that make them angry?” Tsukishima asked too quickly, annoyed to hear his voice higher than it should have been with his nerves.

“No, no.” Semi assured him. “They’re actually fat and happy, and pretty sleepy because they’re so full. And they’re all young bees with a young, virile queen who has strong smelling pheromones to keep them in check.” He bade Tsukishima to lay his hand flat and when he did Semi placed a tiny box with a wire cage on one side in his palm.

“Oh! That’s a bee!” he yelped, nearly dropping the thing, but saved by Semi’s reassuring hand on his wrist.

“That’s the queen. She’s fine, I promise. You’ll be okay. Just don’t panic, don’t move too much. Okay, ready?” He released Tsukishima’s hand and reached into a box of his own, coming out with a _literal_ handful of bees.

Tsukishima stared at him until Kuroo said with a laugh, “Close your mouth, don’t want one in there, do you?”

Tsukishima shut it so hard his teeth clicked together. And then...

Semi dropped a handful of bees into his palm. They buzzed high and loud, and Tsukishima’s arm nearly dropped at the sudden weight, more than he expected but not exactly heavy. He hadn’t expected them to be so warm. They felt electric and alive as their little feet (thousands of feet hooking gently into his skin) walked over him. Many of them immediately found the queen in her cage and clung to the box, little wings beating and settling as they found their place. Others quickly followed, even as Semi reached in and dropped more and more handfuls into the pile. They crawled up his arm, hooking onto each other as they got as close to the queen as they could, then backing off and waiting their turn like patient theatergoers. They hung off each other in a teardrop shape form his hand, and he was reminded of that old game with the monkeys in a barrel, all connected to one another.

“Right now,” Semi said, brushing bees from his hands with a casual, gentle flick, like he was brushing off dust instead of flying insects, “they think they’re swarming, they think there’s too many bees in the hive and they’re preparing to go off to find a new home. They’re not defensive, and they’re just waiting for instructions from the queen. But she’s in your hand, so she won’t go anywhere.”

Tsukishima was fascinated now, and amazed that he hadn’t felt the sharp, painful prick of a sting. Kuroo kept spraying the smoke periodically to keep the ones in the air from panicking as more and more landed on his hand and joined their fellows in their hanging bulge. Anytime he moved his fingers they clung to his skin with all their tiny little might, so tight his skin tingled and pulled taut like a sunburn.

“I thought for sure I’d get stung…” Tsukishima said in awe. “This is …” He stopped, at a loss for words to explain just how the experience made him feel. It was strange, and wonderful, and, after a while, not at all frightening. The bees weren’t stinging him, they were just sitting there, warm and hanging from his hand. He had a new respect for the tiny creatures, and thought that he was beginning to understand the love that Tendou and Semi had for them. A little bit.

Kuroo beamed at him. “Told you you’d like it.”

“I do, but”—he spluttered, trying not to jerk too much as a bee flew near his mouth. It landed on his cheek, but, amazingly, he wasn’t scared, so he lowered his voice to not scare it too much. “How do I get them off?”

Semi grinned, reaching in and prying the queen box from his fingers. The bees buzzed unhappily at being disturbed, but settled quickly again as Semi moved the box within reach. “Just shake them off.”

“Excuse me?”

“Just”—Semi demonstrated, raising his arm and jerking it in a sharp downward motion. “The queen is in the box now, so they should follow her. Give them a bit of encouragement, though.”

Tsukishima hesitated, sure that he would get stung now, but did as Semi told him. He raised his arm a bit, then flicked it downwards like he was throwing an egg onto the ground, and the bees fell off in a cascade of buzzing. They hummed as they took flight, and Kuroo sprayed the smoke a bit more to make sure they didn’t panic. Semi looked pleased, taking a soft brush and wiping the remaining bees from Tsukishima’s skin.

“They’ll find their way home, and I’ll take them back to their hive tomorrow.” He smiled, motioning for them to go to the door that led to the stairs. They followed him and tried to keep the bees outside as they crowded into the small hallway.

As they took the elevator down Kuroo grinned at him. “So?”

Tsukishima shrugged, trying to hide just how pleased he was. “It was fun, I admit.”

Semi laughed, motioning to his face. “Maybe next time we try a beard.”

“No, I’m fine with just the hand,” Tsukishima said seriously, suddenly nervous all over again.

“I’ve done a bodysuit before,” Semi told him, then laughed at his look of shock. “I did it for a fundraiser. There’s video and pictures.”

Kuroo said, “Oh, it was badass. I’ll show you when we get home.”

 

* * *

 

They spent the rest of the day wandering the city, hand in hand, trying to find the bee-boxes that Semi kept. It was easy to find the ones in parks and Botanical Gardens, a bit harder to spot the ones on the roof, but Kuroo noticed that sometimes they could see bees flying towards certain buildings and they would try to chase them to see which rooftop they went to. Its was silly, and fun, and for lunch Kuroo took him to a small, out of the way pub that was dark and warm where they gorged themselves on traditional Irish foods straight from the hearths of grandmothers and immigrants. It was absolutely delicious and Tsukishima was upset that he had never found this place before. He’d have to expand his searches, maybe coming to more small scale restaurants instead of the high-class, expensive ones. A change of pace would be nice.

They slept at Kuroo’s apartment, bringing Cera over so she wouldn’t be lonely, and Kuroo made him a breakfast of egg-white omelets, chopped sausages, spicy red peppers, and roasted baby potatoes.

He was liking Kuroo’s cooking more and more, and wondered if it was really improving, if Kuroo was using his food as a way to open up more, or if Tsukishima was just biased now. He would have to be careful about that.

“Oh, shit,” Kuroo said suddenly as he hopped into his chef pants. Today they were a gaudy yellow with happy peppers dancing all over them. Tsukishima hated them but they fit Kuroo, somehow. It worked, somehow.

“What?”

“The honey’s still in your car.” He paused, looking worried. “I can’t carry it all to the restaurant by myself.”

Tsukishima glanced at the clock. He didn’t have any plans until noon or so, a lunch with Yamaguchi and his fiancée, where he fully expected to be asked to be best man. Yamaguchi had hinted as much, his voice shaking with excitement on the phone when they’d made the plans last week. 

“I can drive you, if you want. I’ve got time.”

Kuroo grinned, pleased. He’d set this up, probably. “Oh, great. Want to go early? I can show you around.”

“Sure.” He ate the last of his omelette and stood, already dressed for the day, and going to pet Cera as she warmed herself on the windowsill while he waited for Kuroo to finish getting ready.

Early was an understatement. It was barely seven in the morning and as they walked in the dark restaurant, each laden with heavy boxes of honey jars, Tsukishima asked, “What time do people usually come in?”

“I think the schedule says ten or eleven for most people.”

“So why do you come so early?” Tsukishima pointed out as they set the boxes down in the pantry.

Kuroo shrugged, running his fingers over the shelves. “Just to see how she’s feeling for the day. Sometimes she’s hot and ready, others she needs some warming up.” He winked, slipping his fingers around the pole of the shelf.

Tsukishima laughed. “You’re insane.” He stepped out of the pantry and looked around, impressed at the size of the place. Even darkened it felt massive, maybe even more so because of the long, deep shadows that filled the corners. “I like it, though.”

Kuroo followed him, closing the door behind him and pulling Tsukishima towards the back hallway. “Me too. I fell in love the moment I saw it. I mean I had to replace a bunch of the equipment, but most of the major appliances were fine. Here, this is—oh!”

He stopped at the door of a damp, soapy smelling room and when Tsukishima peered in he saw a smaller man elbow deep in water cleaning a large, heavy mixing bowl that was bigger than he was.

“Chef? Why are you here so early?”

Kuroo smiled. “Suga, hey. Just came to drop off some stuff and see what I could start on for the day. Are you about to leave?”

“Yeah,” Suga said, glancing at Tsukishima. “I would shake your hand but…”

Tsukishima chuckled. “It’s fine.”

“This is Sugawara,” Kuroo told him. “He’s our bread baker.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Suga smiled, then, with a grunt of effort, heaved the giant bowl out from the sink and dropped it onto a rolling cart for transport. “Geez, can we get some robots in here or something?”

Kuroo laughed. “I’ll look into it. Did you get everything done?”

“Yup. I wrote it all on the board in there for you to look at. It’s all cooling on the racks.”

“Thanks, Suga.”

Suga waved at them as he wheeled the mixing bowl through a set of swinging doors. Beyond it Tsukishima saw tall racks and large mixing bowls, marble and stainless steel counters and assumed that was the bakeshop Kuroo had told him about.

“Come on,” Kuroo said, taking him back towards the front. “Thanks for helping me bring the honey. I need to start working on the menu.”

“What about the menu for your review?” Tsukishima asked, trying to keep his interest sounding casual.

“Oh, I’m almost done, I think. I’ve got to get with Oikawa about wine pairings but…” He ran a finger over a slim binder with a smile that looked miles away. “I think it’s almost ready. It’s going to be good. I know it.” He tapped the binder, and Tsukishima thought that was where he was keeping his recipes and ideas.

Tsukishima smiled, touching his shoulder and sliding his fingers up to the soft hair at the base of his neck. “I’ll come try it, okay?”

Kuroo turned, smiling, reaching back and taking his hand, kissing it before pulling him close and kissing him. “I can’t wait.”

“Mhm.” Tsukishima hummed. “I’ll leave you to your work, then.” He could see that even though Kuroo spoke to and looked at him, a part of him was pulling away, spreading out in the kitchen, already searching for the next piece of inspiration. He liked that he could see it. He liked this side of Kuroo: the intense, focused, professional side just as much as he liked the warm, jovial, playful side of the Kuroo from his own kitchen, making crêpes and omelettes and cat food.

“See you tomorrow?”

“Of course.” They kissed again before Kuroo walked him to the door, bidding him farewell.

As Tsukishima walked to his car he wondered if he should have told him… but no, the surprise would be interesting. He wondered how Kuroo would react. He hoped it would go well, instead of horribly wrong. Either way, he would be glad to finally have it all out in the open.


	19. refire

“Are you alright?” Tsukishima asked as he came in the room carrying two glasses and a bottle of wine from Kuroo’s cabinet. He sat beside Kuroo on his bed as Cera rolled over and pressed into his leg, meowing at him and asking for belly rubs.

He wouldn’t do it, though, because he knew she’d use the opportunity to attack his hand.

Kuroo reached over and touched her paw with a finger so she batted at his hand. “Just thinking.”

Tsukishima poured the wine and passed him a glass. “You’re overthinking. I can see it.”

Kuroo sighed. “I’m not. I’m just worried.” He withdrew his hand as Cera extended her claws, then purred softly as if she wasn’t planning to claw his hand. He ran a finger over the papers in his lap all bound together by a binder, looking pensive, his other hand tightening around the glass.

Tsukishima leaned over to look then glanced away nervously. “That’s your menu?”

“Yes,” Kuroo said. He took a drink and flipped a laminated page over and read down the next page. “It’s through… it’s been finished for a while now. I just…” He sighed, the frustration clear in that one gesture.“It worries me.”

“Your review? Kuroo, you shouldn’t be so worried, you’re a great chef. You’ve been telling me about this menu for three months now, it sounds wonderful.”

Kuroo was shaking his head. “It wasn’t good enough last time.”

Tsukishima’s stomach tightened at the sad expression on his face. He set his glass aside and leaned over, taking the binder from him and closing it succinctly. “Don’t fret like that. You’ve come a long way since then. You’ve evolved.”

Kuroo glanced at him, then his eyes fixed on his binder as Tsukishima set it aside. “But what if I can—”

“Look,” Tsukishima said, “making another type of bread or adding half a teaspoon of cinnamon to something or whatever else you’re thinking isn’t going to change anything. You and your team are opening this menu on Tuesday, right?”

Kuroo nodded. “Yeah, the critic is coming back next week and we need to get the timing down on the menu so we aren’t scrambling when it comes time. It’s a fourteen course instead of three or four usual. Y’know,” he drummed his fingers on the base of his glass, “apps, entrée, dessert…”

“Mhm-hmm.” Tsukishima nodded, letting him talk.

“But this is different—no single dish is a full meal—it’s the whole thing. So it has to flow well. It has to taste good all together.” He took another drink. “And the summer flavors are almost too far gone now. I should have done a fall menu but—”

Tsukishima laid a hand on his wrist. “It’ll be good. You know it will.”

Kuroo looked over at him, stress lines evident around his eyes and in the tenseness of his mouth. “Yeah… I hope so. I just… wonder if there’s anything more I can do.”

“Like what?”

“Like, should I move the honey course back one, to go after the chocolate? Or the lamb… Should that be the climax? Lamb is really good, y’know. Or, like, should I make a new sauce for it?” He paused, considering. “Well, actually, Yamamoto made the sauce for it… and it’s really good. I just … wonder.”

Cera purred loudly, getting up to crawl in Kuroo’s lap, upset that she wasn’t the recipient of the entirety of their attention and attempting to remedy that.

“Kuroo, do you think the people you hired are good at their jobs? Are they good cooks?”

“Yes, of course. I wouldn’t have hired them if they weren’t.”

“And you let them have hands in your dishes and menus, yes?”

Kuroo scratched behind Cera’s ear with one hand. “Yes, I think it helps breed creativity and just a bit of competition amongst us. The Sauce Battle between Bokuto and Yamamoto had really tasty results.”

Tsukishima laughed softly. “Then you trust them?”

Kuroo inhaled slowly, a smile spreading on his face. “Yeah. I do. Each and every one of them.”

“Then don’t fret anymore, okay?” He squeezed his wrist gently. “It makes you look constipated.” Kuroo snorted and laughed so hard the cat scratched him in her surprise.

 

* * *

 

Kuroo stood on the line, letting everything absorb into him. The smells, sounds, the nervousness, and the excitement. It was _electric_ tonight. Everyone knew what hung in the balance. It wasn’t even their reputation as a restaurant—it was Kuroo’s pride in himself.

If they failed, again, he would be devastated. They all would. But he hoped it wouldn’t ruin him. They always say _don’t let one bad night get you down_ but… he couldn’t help it, not really. He’d poured his soul into this for three months and if it wasn’t good enough then nothing ever would be. A hand on his shoulder pulled him from his thoughts. Kai, standing beside him, as always, the rest of the brigade right behind him. The port door swung open and Oikawa stepped in, ticket in hand. Not the critic, but the first table. The restaurant was open. The kitchen was ready.

“ _T’es prêt?_ ” Kai asked, but it wasn’t a question. It was an affirmation. He was ready.

They all were.

Oikawa procured a single ticket, held it out to him as Kuroo reached for it. He glanced down the order and felt the tension rise behind him from the others. So he stopped, turned, hands on his hips. “This is just any other night, okay?”

No one would point out that he was the one freaking out.

Bokuto waved a hand. “Sure, sure. Can we go now?” He made an impatient gesture, hopping on his toes. Bokuto was always, always ready to jump headlong into the chaos of service.

Yamamoto laughed and smacked him with a hand. “You’re always jumping the gun, is that why half your stuff dies on the hot plate?”

Bokuto shot him a glare that anyone other than the kitchen staff would have seen as hostile. “Shut up and cook faster next time.”

Kuroo snapped, “Stop that. Your usual banter goes on the back burner tonight.” It was the closest thing to _be serious_ he would ever tell them. It wasn’t strictly true, Bokuto’s plates made it out to customers on time and Yamamoto was quick to tell him when he needed a few extra moments. They coordinated well together, only mincing words playfully, if a bit belligerently.

Kuroo looked down at the ticket, raising his voice, “Alright, here we go. Table fifteen, three covers, one scallop, one date, one beef tartar. Hea—”

“Heard, Chef!” They turned away, either to cook or to continue prep. Saru came in and handed him a second ticket with another waiter right behind him.

“Alright,” he said to them. “Stagger the timing a bit more. Tell Oikawa I don’t want crowding tonight.”

“Sure thing,” Saru said and backed out.

He called the next tickets and took a deep, steadying breath. This was fine. He was fine. His team was perfect, well trained, and knowledgeable. Everything was fine. He ducked his head, setting to his work, letting the rhythm of the line flow through him, setting the pace steadily, fast and sure. They’d been doing this for months—they were a symphony making beautiful music together.

After a time, he wasn’t sure just how long (time was nothing to them now except minutes to the window as the tickets came streaming in and plates went rushing out) Hinata bounced in through the door. “Hey!” he said loudly—too loud, even in the clammer of the kitchen—and Kuroo turned to frown at him. “Oh, sorry. Kenma told me to tell you that the critic is here.”

Kuroo nodded. “Good, thank you.”

Hinata cocked his head, waiting. Kuroo squinted at him as he bent over a plate and placed tiny pieces of foie gras. “What else?”

“Oh, nothing. Just—” He shifted uncomfortably. “Did you want me to send a message back?”

Kuroo gave him a scathing look. “No.”

“Oh. Well, I’ll tell him you said thank you, then.”

“I’m sorry?” Kuroo said, annoyed at the boys audacity. Before he could leave he snapped, “Something wrong?”

Hinata pressed the tips of his fingers together. “It’s just… he gets mad when you ignore him.”

“I didn’t ignore—” He straightened, getting mad. “Tell him I didn’t abandon him nine years ago to go to Paris and to get the hell over it. Tonight is _not_ the fucking night.”

Hinata bit his lip. “He’s still really upset about it thou—”

“Kid! Go away!”

Hinata scurried out the door and Kuroo pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, frustrated. How many times did he have to apologize to Kenma before he put that little spat behind them? He didn’t have time to talk to him about it again just now. If the critic was at the bar he had a few minutes until he was seated, a few more while Oikawa spoke to him, poured the wine, then brought the ticket. He knew what the plates would be. Technically he could go ahead and start it but he didn’t want anything going wrong. Better to just let the menu unfold on its own.

As he sent Saru out with a table Oikawa slipped in behind him. “Kur—” He paused, then remembering that they were mid-service corrected himself, “Chef, the critic is asking for you.”

Kuroo frowned, pulling a lamb from the drip pan and slicing it into fine, even cuts. “Are you serious?” His tone said _fuck off._

Oikawa chuckled, a little nervously seeing as Kuroo had a knife in his hands. “I … told him you were busy.”

“Understatement,” Kuroo said flatly, drawing delicate lines of pea green purée and droplets of thickened demi-glace. Oikawa waited until he was through, placing each slice of lamb just _so_ and sprinkling a line of spices along the side.

“I told him you were busy,” he repeated, “but he insisted. Said it would only take a moment.”

Kuroo straightened, scowling, pushing the plate to the side. “Kai, take over for me.” He stepped around the stainless steel counter and followed Oikawa out into the dining room. “What table is it?”

“Twenty.” Oikawa pointed with a nod of his head.

Kuroo stopped in his tracks as if struck. He glanced at Oikawa. “You’re sure?”

Oikawa turned to look at him then took out a notebook and referencing it. “Yes, one hundred percent. Kenma backed me up, but the man shows signs of being a critic anyway. You can see the notebook outline in his pocket—”

Kuroo cut him off by pushing past him, stalking over towards the table and the man sitting there.

The blonde man with glasses. Who was looking right back at him with amused hazel eyes. “Hello, Kuroo.”

Kuroo scowled at Tsukishima, leaning on the table and lowering his voice. “What are you doing here?”

Tsukishima sipped at the water that had been poured for him. “You’re upset.”

“Of course I’m upset,” Kuroo whispered angrily. “You’re telling me that you’re—” he stopped, clenching his jaw.

“I am.” Tsukishima looked up at him, cool and calm, the smallest hint of a smile drawing up the lines of his eyes. “I’m extremely shocked that you never figured it out.”

“You never told me.”

“You never asked.”

Kuroo blinked, standing up, folding his arms. Anger, confusion, and frustration welling up inside him beside the ever present happiness that came from being around Tsukishima. This was a dangerous knot of emotions. “You said you were a writer. Like, books.”

“I never said books,” Tsukishima said simply. “You just assumed that.”

Kuroo inhaled slowly, looking up at the ceiling as he tried to corral his ever racing thoughts. “I can’t believe this.”

“I’m sorry,” Tsukishima said. “Really. But I am here for a reason. I just wanted you to know…”

“That you’ve been lying to me?”

Tsukishima shook his head. “Not lying. I told you I was a writer, you knew that I had dinner plans almost every night, and I would spend all night writing afterwards. You just never saw and you never _asked._ ”

Kuroo scowled at him, fisting his hands into his arms. “Fine. Enjoy your meal,” he said, voice clipped, and turned to stalk back to the kitchen. Kai stepped aside easily and Kuroo took his proper place, pushing all his emotions away. Now was no time to feel things. Only to work.

Really, though, did it matter? It was Tsukishima—it was him!—it wasn’t the same anymore. This wasn’t a critic review. He didn’t know what this was anymore.

Oikawa came in with a ticket. “Did you know him?”

“Do your job.” Kuroo snatched the ticket from him.

“I am,” Oikawa purred, dark brown eyes glinting with amusement. “Observation is my job.”

Kuroo turned to the brigade. “Special, table twenty, first course seven minutes.”

Yamamoto called back, “Heard, six to walk.”

When Kuroo bent to his plates Oikawa still hovered, smiling. Kuroo tried not to glare and failed. “Would you do me the honor of _getting the fuck out of my kitchen_?”

Oikawa smiled, nodded his head in a sarcastic, acquiescent bow, then plucked the finished table from the shelf and sauntered out.

 

* * *

 

Halfway through the eleventh course, the start of dessert, Oikawa came back in the kitchen, bringing a small folded note with him and setting it on the pass in front of Kuroo. “From your friend.”

Kuroo didn’t pause in his movements, plating small herbs with tiny tweezers. “I assume you mean Kenma with some useful information about the bar because otherwise I don’t care.”

Oikawa laughed a high, jubilant laugh. “No, the one at table twenty.”

Kuroo ignored this statement, pushing the note away with a finger. He handed the plate to Oikawa. “Course twelve. Hurry, don’t let it fall, and don’t touch it, I don’t want wilting.” It was a delicate swirl of thin, dainty honey strings shaped like a hive. Underneath were three miniature choux pastries filled with a whipped honey from Semi’s hives. He’d used most of Tendou’s honey in the savory dishes, leaving the more delicate, sweet flavors of Semi’s hives for the dessert courses.

“Aren’t you going to read it? I’m curious.”

“If it falls on your way to the table I’m deducting your pay,” Kuroo told him, turning away, plucking a ticket from the board as Fukunaga dropped a pan of filets in front of him. “Bokuto where’s my sides for the salmon?”

Bokuto yelled over his shoulder, “One minute.”

“Now, Bo!”

Bokuto didn’t answer him, but Inuoka stepped in, deftly taking half the station from him to help him out of his frazzled state. With the tasting menu going and the regular menu Bokuto had a lot to do and often would need help at one point or another. He was usually good at admitting it, but tonight he seemed to be trying to hold up on his own because of Kuroo’s stress. But Bokuto slipping would only bring down the entire kitchen. Inuoka would help get him far enough out of the weeds that he could continue on his own—neither of them saying a word about it.

His eyes caught the small note at the corner of his station, then tore them away. He didn’t want to read it. He didn’t have time. But it niggled at him. After plating the fish he moved to the next course of the critic, of Tsukishima’s, and his hands shook as he tried to place the chocolate cage. It broke under his fingers and he swore, tossing the shell aside and trying to pluck the broken pieces from the plate.

The next one broke too and he stopped, straightening and taking a slow, steadying breath. Kai looked over at him and touched his elbow. “ _Tu veux que je le fasse?_ ”

“No.” Kuroo breathed, reaching for another cage. “I can do it.” And, after a moment of shaky nervousness, he did, placing it perfectly just as Oikawa came back. Before he could speak Kuroo pushed the plate on him. “Go.”

Oikawa raised his eyebrows, a smile pulling up his mouth as he took the plate and turned smoothly back out the door. One more course.

He ignored the note as the wind from the door fluttered it. “Bo —!”

“Right here,” Bokuto said as he came up behind him, dropping bowls filled with his sides. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Kuroo told him as he stepped back to his station. He switched between preparing the cold plate of the final course, spooning globs of meringue in slashes, to plating muscles wrapped in squid ink pasta, trying not to spill the emulsion. “Yaku!” he shouted as he moved back to the final dessert plate.

The smaller man appeared at his side, carrying chilled square tubs and bottles with him and setting them near Kuroo. “Don’t have to shout.”

Kuroo picked up a bottle and squeezed out a lacy pattern of blackcurrant purée. Yaku rolled a sorbet between two spoons, making a smooth, oval shaped portion that he placed carefully atop the sauce. “Looks good.”

Kuroo hummed under his breath, unwilling to admit it. It was over. Nothing else to be done. He wiped the edge of the plate of invisible crumbs, twisting the plate to make sure everything was perfect.

It was. Yaku saw it too and took his chilled dishes away. He was never one to linger. That was what gave Kuroo the confidence to push the dish to the edge of the pass so that when Oikawa came in, he saw it immediately and smiled.

“Ah, the last course.” He smirked up at Kuroo. “Want me to tell him anything?”

Kuroo ignored him, took the note, and dropped it expeditiously into the corner of the grill, watching as the fragile paper caught, burned bright for a moment, and withered to ash. Kai glanced at it, annoyance in his face at his grill being defiled like this, but said nothing. Kuroo glanced over the tickets, only six more tables: all but one were just finishing up entrées and moving to desserts. The last few covers for the entrées Kai was plating up now; Yaku, Lev, and Yuuki would take care of the rest.

As Saru took the last tables entrées the brigade turned to Kuroo, wiping their hands, shifting from foot to foot, Bokuto’s hands shaking just a bit, Fukunaga taking a long drink of water. Kai waited, hanging his tongs on the side and pushing his used utensils into a bus tub.

The others took the time in which the last of the desserts were going out to let the adrenaline begin to ebb, dumping the food that never got used onto plates and into saran wrap to take home or shoving it in their faces immediately, their bodies begging for food. Bokuto watched him with bright, cautious, golden eyes, rubbing a thumb over the knife scar on his hand, a nervous habit he was developing when he wanted to talk but didn’t think he should or when he wasn’t sure _what_ to say.

Kuroo raised his eyebrows at him and Bokuto’s face broke out into a grin.

Yaku waved at him as the plates left the kitchen. “Board’s clear, Chef.”

Kuroo inhaled. Exhaled. Closed his eyes. And breathed.

It was over.

When he opened them he said to the team, “Good job. Thank you, everyone. Clear down.”

For the first time since the opening of the restaurant Kuroo went to his office after service, not helping to clean. He dropped into his chair, buried his face in his hands, and let himself cry. Emotion welled hard and fast in his chest. Joy that it was over; fear because of the same; pride in his team and all they’ve done for him; exhaustion seeping from his bones and his head suddenly aching. His heart raced, slowed, sputtered, and flew into a frenzy again.

He inhaled, air catching in his chest, and ripped the bandana from his hair. His hands shook and he twisted the red cloth around his fist, hard enough that his fingers tingled. Outside the office he heard the sounds of dishes being thrown into tubs, porters and cooks moving back and forth across the floor to take dishes to the dish room, the smells of cleaning chemicals as they wiped down the glittering steel.

Someone knocked on the glass. Kuroo pressed a hand to his eyes and rubbed it down his face, sniffing some. He looked up and blinked at Lev moving into his office, sheepish, a plate in his hands.

“Chef? Thought you might be hungry…”

Kuroo almost said no, but suddenly all he was was hungry. So he smiled and waved him in. “Thank you, Lev.”

The tall man set the plate on his desk. “Eat up. I…” he paused, smiling happily, “I really enjoy working here. You’re a really good chef.”

Kuroo blinked, pulling the plate towards him. “How very sentimental.”

Lev shrugged. “It’s just the truth. Oh, and Kai told me to tell you he’s got breakdown covered, and you should eat, and they’ll wait for you for the meeting so take as long as you need.” He waved as he left, leaving Kuroo alone with the remnants of dinner. Kuroo ate slowly, savoring the fruits of his and his teams labors. Yaku had warmed up slices of baguette for him, knowing it was his favorite. He didn’t want to look at his phone, didn’t want to know if Tsukishima had texted him or tried to call.

Even on a normal night, Kuroo wouldn’t get home for another hour or two, but he wasn’t sure if he could organize his feelings before then. They were a deep seated tangled knot that he was trying to untangle strand by strand, the effort made easier with food. Good food made by his friends, his cooks, his team. They had done right by him, and that’s all he could have asked for.

Later, after he’d eaten, after the dishes were drying, the floors were clean, all the smells of service gone to be replaced by clean, sanitary surfaces, Kuroo stepped from his office. When he did the others moved to the long table they reserved for meetings and meals and sat waiting for him to speak.

He stood at the head of the table, squeezing his fingers on the dark, grainy wood of it.“I’m sorry I—”

Yaku said loudly, “Don’t worry about the clean up today. It was actually easier without you breathing down our necks.”

Bokuto looked over at him, fingers twitching around a nonexistent cigarette. “And who are you to talk? You’re like a drill sergeant.” He pointed at Kuroo, explaining, “He’s worse than you.”

Several people laughed, even Kuroo let himself smile. “Fine, fine,” he said, “but, really, thank you. We had a great service tonight, as we do every night. You all are the best I could have asked for.”

Yamamoto piped up, standing abruptly. “This sounds like you’re leaving us!”

“I’m not.” Kuroo shook his head, laughing softly, not really feeling it, but needing to reassure them. “I promise. I’m just…” he shrugged, “grateful to have you all with me.”

Kenma said sleepily, “Better than Paris?”

Kuroo glanced at him, then away, the little bit of energy he’d mustered from his meal gone now. “Go home, rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He knocked the table twice, then turned, dismissing them.

After they all changed and left Bokuto called to him from the back door, “Come on, you too. Don’t sleep on the flour again. It’s starting to smell.”

Kuroo poked his head out of the office, glaring. “Shut up. I’m about to leave.”

“Are not. Come on. I won’t leave until you do.”

Kuroo pulled at his coat, unbuttoning the front and exhaling in pleasure at the cool air that rushed down his sweat dampened shirt. “Aren’t you supposed to meet your model?”

Bokuto grinned a lopsided grin. “Yeah. So don’t make me late.”

Kuroo sighed and slapped off the lights as he followed Bokuto out the door.

Bokuto tugged on his sleeve as Kuroo paused at the alley mouth. “Don’t go back.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Yeah, you were thinking about it. I can tell. Let it go until tomorrow, okay?”

“… Fine.”

Bokuto walked him to the corner where they would have to diverge paths then hailed a cab for him. He pushed Kuroo into it, even against his protests, and leaned on the door. “You’ll make it home okay?”

Kuroo laughed, looking up at him. “Aren’t I the one that’s supposed to ask that of you?”

Bokuto smiled. “See you tomorrow.” And he closed the door, slapped the roof of the cab, and Kuroo was hurled into the night.

 

* * *

 

At home Kuroo stripped his clothes off and collapsed into bed, huffing into his pillows. His bones were heavy. It felt like a chore to breathe. He just wanted to sleep. He breathed slowly, trying to force a stillness into his being. He floated, eyes closed, breath coming a bit easier, allowing himself to sink and float and fall into sleep. Rocking on the waves of unconsciousness, he dreamed of the kitchens in Paris, of the old days, apprenticing under hard chefs and wonderful teachers. He remembered one chef who would pull him aside to scream at him at the smallest of mistakes: a mince that was a millimeter off, simmering a sauce too long, over mixing the bread dough. At nineteen it hadn’t scared him, not until the chef had almost struck him. But Kuroo had stood up to him, told him to back off, knife in hand tucked against his side, and the chef had glared at him until they’d reached some sort of instinctual, churning peace. He’d never wanted to have that in his kitchen. He’d endeavored to make his kitchen a place where everyone felt they had a voice, and he thought he’d done a good job of that so far. He could only hope he’d continue to be a chef, a person, his team could come to—

A paw on his face woke him with a start. “Mhmph…” he murmured, automatically reaching up with a hand to pet the fluffy white cat that purred under his fingers. “Wha’re you doin’ here…?” he mumbled, turning onto his back, holding the cat against his chest. “The balcony’s not open…”

“You’re right,” Tsukishima said, stepping into the dark bedroom. He wore his silly pajamas, the ones with tiny green and brown dinosaurs, T-rex’s, running across the pants. He’d said on more than one occasion how he didn’t like the scientific inaccuracies of the pajamas, not only because T-rex’s couldn’t really run as fast as the pajamas made it seem, but also because they were drawn completely wrong: standing too tall. He said they would never have been so upright.

Kuroo looked at him, sighing, Madame Cera settling on his chest. “How’d you get in?”

Tsukishima held up a key. “You left this in my key bowl. Thought I wouldn’t notice?”

Kuroo huffed. “I’d forgotten.”

Tsukishima came over, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed. “You’re angry with me still.”

Kuroo stared into Madame’s eyes that blinked slowly at him, petting her with long, careful strokes. “You never told me.”

Tsukishima sighed, slipping under the covers, leaning on his arm. “Did you read my note?” Kuroo’s mouth tightened and Tsukishima made a noise in his throat. “You didn’t. Stubborn ass.” He leaned closer, brushing his lips over Kuroo’s bare shoulder. “It said I’m sorry.”

“Did it?” Kuroo tried to keep still, tried to pretend that Tsukishima’s presence wasn’t making his brain fire a million and one neurons of happiness into his system.

“It did. I even drew a little picture of Cera.”

Kuroo’s mouth quirked. “Did you?”

“Mhm-hmm,” Tsukishima said, mouth trailing up to his sensitive collarbone. “It was very cute. I’m sad you never saw it.”

Kuroo shivered, one hand leaving the cat to reach up and touch Tsukishima’s arm. “I wish you had told me.”

Tsukishima bit his lip and pressed his cheek into Kuroo’s skin. “I really am sorry. I wanted to tell you… but I also wanted to keep it professional.”

“So why did you call me to your table?” He couldn’t hide the note of frustration in his voice.

“I realized,” Tsukishima muttered, “that I wanted you to know who I was.”

“And that particular realization couldn’t have come a bit earlier?”

Tsukishima laughed softly, just a breath of air. “Yes. Probably. I’m sorry about that. Really. But don’t be angry with me anymore… I don’t want to fight.”

Kuroo lay still a moment, eyes focused on the ceiling, counting the small cracks. Finally, he said, “I forgive you… but I’m still upset. That will just take time, okay?” He looked over, the never-darkening lights of the city streaming in through the windows and illuminating their faces. Tsukishima had taken off his glasses before he’d laid down and his eyes were wide and beautiful in the orange glow. “What did you think?” He couldn’t help himself.

Tsukishima raised one clear, thin eyebrow. “About?”

Kuroo snorted. “The meal—the menu. The one I’ve been slaving over for three months.”

Tsukishima ducked his head, but Kuroo could feel the smile he pressed into the soft muscle of Kuroo’s chest. Madame wriggled, claws coming out momentarily to knead his skin. “Do you really want to know?”

“…Yes. Of course.”

“Or would you rather wait for my review?”

Kuroo stirred, shifting to look more fully down at him. “I never asked for another published review,” he said, more surprised than anything else.

“No,” Tsukishima smiled, “you didn't. But I think you deserve it.”

Kuroo couldn't help the smile that stretched his face. “Really? Is it positive or negative?”

“Just wait for it,” Tsukishima said, laughing, pressing a kiss to his chest and trailing upwards, making Kuroo shiver. “Especially since it was supposed to be a surprise review. You're not supposed to know about it. So just wait. Being boyfriends doesn’t give you special privilege.”

Kuroo smiled to himself. “Boyfriends,” he said to himself, tasting the word and finding he liked the flavor.

“Mhm-hmm.” Tsukishima kissed his skin, then turned his face to lay his cheek on his skin. “Don’t be mad.”

“I’m just…annoyed, I suppose. At myself, too. I should have seen. But _you_ still could have said.” Kuroo shifted, moving his arm under Tsukishima’s shoulders and holding him close, wincing as Madame sunk her claws into his skin. “I’ll get over it…Stop that now, _ma chérie, ça fait mal._ ” He pushed her gently off his chest, tucking her to his side as Tsukishima curled up on the other. He was sandwiched in warmth. The knot inside was unravelling, slowly, helped with soft, peppered kisses from Tsukishima’s lips. He breathed, fingers opening, brushing down Tsukishima’s back, making him arch and press closer. Kuroo turned and kissed his head. “You’re not writing. Don’t you usually spend all night writing after dining at a restaurant?”

Tsukishima leaned his head against his shoulder. “Not tonight. Tonight I’d rather be here.”

Kuroo smiled at him, the knot falling to pieces and the space it left behind filled with the happiness that Tsukishima’s presence brought him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French Translations - 
> 
> T'es prêt - You're ready?  
> Tu veux que je le fasse - Do you want me to do it?  
> ça fait mal - it hurts


	20. fillet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emotional chapter, btw. Some of it to do with self-loathing and Akaashi's attempts to deal with his trauma. Just a mild warning, really.

The door was locked, but Akaashi had made Bokuto a copy of the brownstone key so he could come in at night and not wake anyone up. Akaashi had stopped working as much since Bokuto had removed the problem that was Terushima. He didn’t work at the bar anymore, but still asked Bokuto to come over sometimes after work so they could at least sleep in the same space and spend time together in the morning before one or both of them had to go to work.

He slipped inside and up the stairs, stopping at the door to the bathroom when he saw the light on under Akaashi’s closed door. He frowned, concerned, because Akaashi wasn’t usually awake at this hour. He hesitated, but moved into the bathroom to change and brush his teeth—Akaashi had started commenting on the cigarettes on his breath and he felt bad when they kissed now.

He had just changed into comfortable pants and had used practically half the bottle of mouthwash when there was a soft knock on the door. Bokuto opened it and was surprised to find Akaashi on the other side, eyes puffy and in the long sleeved owl pajamas he favored.

“Keiji?” Bokuto said softly. “What’s going on?”

Akaashi was quiet for a few moments, gaze skittering along the floorboards. “…Bad dream…” He came into the room, looking like he was folding in on himself to be as small as possible, and straight into Bokuto's waiting arms, pressing his face into Bokuto’s chest. Bokuto laid his cheek on Akaashi's head, confused but holding him close nonetheless. He'd learned that Akaashi wanted to be held when he was upset—held, but not contained. It had taken time, but Bokuto had learned how close to bundle the shaken model. Too tight and Akaashi might spiral, thinking only of arms that held him down. Bokuto never wanted to remind him of that—would never want to hurt him—so he made sure to hold him just tight enough to show Akaashi that he would never let him go.

Bokuto kissed his hair, nuzzling into the soft, citrus smelling curls. “Do you want to talk—”

“No.” Akaashi sniffed, pulling away and wiping his nose on his sleeve. “How was work?”

Bokuto watched him, noticed how he wouldn’t meet Bokuto’s eye, how his breath was shallow and his eyes far away. Bokuto reached out a hand, brushing the pad of one finger over Akaashi’s hand. He flinched and Bokuto dropped his hand, pressing his palms to his pants. “Uh… it was fine,” Bokuto managed to say after a moment of uncomfortable silence. He hated that Akaashi _still_ wouldn’t open up to him, but he knew that Akaashi wasn’t ready to talk about what was on his mind. “We had that critic come back tonight. It went well.” He knocked his fists into his sides. “I think Kuroo knew him. But he did really good keeping everything in line, not losing his head.”

“That’s good…” Akaashi muttered, leaning against the wall, picking at his sleeve, “Did—erm—so you got a good review?”

Bokuto picked up his bag, folding his dirty clothes into it and setting it on the counter. “Not yet. It won’t be released for a few days.”

Akaashi nodded. “I’m sure it’ll be… good. You guys make good food.”

Bokuto almost said _how would you know? You’ve never come for dinner_ but stopped himself by pressing his teeth together. “Kuroo seems happy so… that’s all that I care about. I hope the review is good, though, that’ll make him even happier.”

Finally, Akaashi looked up at him, just for a moment, before his eyes danced away again. “I bet it will.” He stepped back, towards the door, hand opening, fingers reaching, and Bokuto inched forward, clasping his fingers. Wordless, he pulled Bokuto down the hall to his bedroom and curled up in bed, drawing the blankets up around himself. Bokuto stretched out beside him, one hand resting gently on his arm.

It took a long time, Bokuto running his hand over Akaashi’s arm in soothing strokes, but when Akaashi finally settled, breathing out a shaky, encompassing breath, Bokuto inched forward and wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close and cuddling him until they both fell into a gentle, dozing sleep, Akaashi’s fingers clenched around Bokuto’s arms.

 

 

* * *

 

Bokuto half woke, eyes unable to open, body frozen in sleep. Something had woken him but he didn’t know what, some sound, something he couldn’t find. His hand reached out blindly, searching for the source. He wasn’t cold, but the small warmth of Akaashi’s body was absent. The sheets were crisp—he hadn’t been there for a while. This is what woke him fully, his eyes peeling open in darkness, finding only the slats of street lights cutting in through the window.

He sat up, rubbing his eyes with one hand, then pushing it through his hair as he glanced around. “Keiji?” he called out, not too loud, wary of disturbing the still nighttime. No answer, so Bokuto moved off the bed, padding on bare feet to the closet to peek in where Akaashi would take to hiding sometimes, but he wasn’t there either. He paused in the doorway, listening, but Matsukawa and Hanamaki either weren’t home yet or were sound asleep. But the shower was running, the bathroom door closed, a faint light coming from underneath.

Bokuto moved to it, pressing an ear to the wood, hand on the knob. He heard what he expected, and what squeezed at his heart in a painful, wrenching way. It made his blood run cold and his heart seize with helpless pain. He knocked with a knuckle and the sound of Akaashi crying stopped as he sucked in a breath, only the water hitting the tile echoing. Bokuto waited, but Akaashi didn’t make a sound; so he opened the door slowly, and closed it softly behind him. The overhead light wasn’t on, the only source of light was a small speaker that the models kept in the bathroom. Bokuto’s eyes took a moment to adjust from the darkness of the hallway. When they did he saw Akaashi was curled up in the shower, arms around his knees, head between them so Bokuto couldn’t see his face. He hesitated, unsure if Akaashi would want him to be there, but he stepped forward anyway. He knew Akaashi heard him by the way his shoulders tensed, the sharp bones of his shoulder blades poking against his skin like broken wings. His ribs were still, his body trembling, and Bokuto realized he was holding his breath.

He moved closer, carefully, as if approaching an injured animal that could bolt or hurt itself more at any given moment. When he reached a hand out and placed it on the dangerously sharp knobs of Akaashi’s spine, Akaashi shuddered out a sob, his entire body wracked with it, bones shivering. The water was scalding. Akaashi’s skin was red with the heat of it and Bokuto almost pulled his hand away in shock. Without removing his hand, Bokuto reached over and turned the heat down with the other, leaving the water on and warm, but not so hot as to burn anymore.

Akaashi shivered, sobbing, refusing to look up even when Bokuto spread his fingers and whispered his name. Bokuto crouched beside the tub, his toes cold and aching from the tile, but not caring, leaning on the edge of the porcelain tub and sliding his hand down Akaashi’s back, his fingers brushing over the hills and valleys of Akaashi’s ribs.

“Keiji…” Bokuto whispered, drawing his palm up to touch Akaashi’s hair.

Akaashi sniffled again, raising his head, eyes focused on the far end of the shower. Water ran down his face, into his bloodshot eyes, making his long lashes flutter. He tugged his knees closer and placed his chin on one, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “I’m sorry…”

Bokuto shook his head. “Nothing to be sorry for.”

“I …” Fat tears welled in his eyes and fell down his cheeks, mixing with the water. “I’m so…” He dropped his head again, mumbling into his legs.

Bokuto hooked his fingers over the side of Akaashi’s head and leaned close, into the water, to kiss his hair. “You’re perfect, is what you are.”

Akaashi’s breath caught in his chest and he turned, pressing into Bokuto’s embrace as he reached both arms in to wrap around his shaking frame. “I’m so sorry!”

Bokuto held him tight, too tight, but Akaashi only clung to him, so he didn’t let go. “Don’t be sorry. You’ve done nothing wrong…” Bokuto said, pressing his mouth to Akaashi’s temple, trying to push his love into Akaashi by osmosis. The water soaked his hair, ran into his eyes, but he didn’t care. “You’ve… done nothing.”

“If—” Akaashi mumbled, hiccuping on a sob. “If I hadn’t let—T-Ter—do that stuff to me—”

Bokuto squeezed him tighter, attempting to pull him out, but when Akaashi started crying again, Bokuto stepped into the tub, picking him up and cradling him against his body as he sat under the running water. “That man that hurt you… he’s the broken one. Not you. You know that? He’s in jail… and you’re here. With me. I’ve got you. He can’t hurt you.”

Akaashi leaned against him, shivering despite the heat of the water. “I wish I could have…stopped them. I just… let them… ”

Bokuto petted his hair, shushing him. “You did nothing wrong, okay? I promise you that.” He rocked him slowly, petting down his back, reaching up with his foot to kick the shower off as the hot water began to run out, trying to cover as much of Akaashi’s skin with his arms as possible to keep him warm. “Please don’t think that this was your fault, because it wasn’t.” He looked down, touching Akaashi’s cheek and pulling his face up so he could look in his eyes. “Listen to me,” Bokuto said slowly, “do not beat yourself up over this. It’s _not_ your fault. Don’t ever think otherwise, you understand me?” He didn’t know what else to say.

Akaashi blinked at him, the pain in his eyes breaking Bokuto’s heart into a thousand tiny pieces. He nodded slowly, chewing so hard on his lip that blood welled between his teeth. Bokuto sighed and tucked his head under his chin, holding him as he began to cry again. After a time, Akaashi stopped, his body shaking, but he looked up, pressing his face into Bokuto’s throat. “I want to sleep now…”

Bokuto nodded, tucking his body up in his arms and standing, cradling him carefully as he pulled a towel from the cabinet and wrapped it around him. Akaashi pushed against him until Bokuto set him down, pulling the towel around his shoulders. “I’ll go find you some clothes,” Bokuto said, touching his cheek, then stepping out and digging through the piles of clean laundry until he found a cozy shirt and pants. His own pants were dripping wet, he’d have to change, but Akaashi was his first priority.

By the time he got back to the bathroom Akaashi had dried himself and sat on the closed toilet lid, shivering with the towel over his head. He looked up when Bokuto came in and took the clothes, pulling them on methodically, not seeming to really notice what he was doing. When he was dressed he slipped past Bokuto, being careful not to touch him, and disappeared into his bedroom.

Bokuto sighed, mopped up the water that had splashed into the floor and stripped his wet pants off, digging through his bag until he found the cleanest pair of work pants and t-shirt he had. After he rubbed his own hair a bit dryer he went back to Akaashi’s bedroom, hesitating in the doorway until the bundle on the bed reached a hand out for him. Bokuto moved closer, curling up on the edge of the bed, holding Akaashi’s hand, then moving closer when Akaashi pulled him down, enfolding him in his arms so that, hopefully, his dreams wouldn’t haunt him any more.

 

* * *

 

Tsukishima leaned over Kuroo, running his fingers through his hair, then tracing down to touch the detailed knife blade at the top of his spine. He always felt like he could cut himself on the tattoo, but could never stop from touching it whenever he saw it. “Hey, you’re missing the market.”

“Tomorrow…” Kuroo sighed sleepily. “I’ll go tomorrow.”

Tsukishima smiled, sitting up and stretching. He had several appointments to get to and needed to get back to his apartment to change.

Kuroo, naked and sprawled out on the bed, called for him and Tsukishima had to laugh at how pitiful a sleepy Kuroo could be.

“I’ve got to go to breakfast,” he told Kuroo.

Kuroo grumbled, sitting up, his bed head making him look like a disaster. A lovely, handsome, grumpy disaster. “You’re going somewhere?”

“Mhm-hmm,” Tsukishima said. “High class place, too. Want me to steal their secrets for you?”

Kuroo chuckled, yawning, scratching his head. “I’ve got enough secrets of my own, thank you very much.”

Tsukishima laughed, coming over to kiss him and pet Cera as she purred in the middle of the bed. “I’ll see you tonight, though?”

“Of course. I’ll bring dinner.”

Tsukishima nodded, then something occurred to him. “Oh, one moment. I’ve got something for you.” He held up a finger and went to where he’d left his bag in the living room, digging through some papers before he found the brochure, and took it back to the bedroom. Kuroo had emerged from the bed, putting on his discarded pants from the night before.

“Here,” Tsukishima said, holding out the folded paper. “I thought we could go to this next Monday.”

Kuroo took it, a crease forming between his eyebrows for a moment as he studied it, then a grin breaking out on his face when he realized what it was. “Oh, nice! That looks great.” He laughed. “I love the name: _A Rich History_. What a clever title for a butter museum exhibit.”

Tsukishima smiled. “I thought you’d like it. They also have a dinosaur one that I thought we could swing by, if we have time.”

“We’ll make time,” Kuroo promised him. He slipped his fingers around Tsukishima’s hand and pulled him over for a kiss. “This looks amazing.”

Tsukishima smiled back. “Don’t forget.”

“You’re the one with a packed schedule. Are you sure you can make time for me?”

“I’ve already cleared my schedule,” Tsukishima assured him, tugging his hand away. “I’ve got to go, now. Don’t let the cat out when you leave.”

“I know how to take care of her,” Kuroo scoffed, picking Cera up and cuddling her against his cheek. She purred and seemed to smile at Tsukishima like _haha, he loves me more than you_.

Tsukishima could only roll his eyes as he left, the sounds of Kuroo singing off-key to Cera floating to his ears until he closed the door behind him.

 

* * *

 

“ _Frère?”_ Kai asked as the long table was cleaned of it’s lunch dishes after the family meal, “ _Puis-je t’parler?_ ”

Kuroo looked at him, munching on the last bite of some bread. “Hm? Sure, we can talk. My office?” They went to the glass walled room, Kuroo sitting on his desk that he only used to keep a myriad of bills and menu ideas. “ _Quoi de neuf?_ ”

Kai sat heavily in one of the chairs, looking nervous and wiping his hands on a rag. “I have some news.”

Kuroo frowned, nervous because of the way Kai wouldn’t look directly at him. “ _Tu n’es pas blessé?_ ”

“ _Non, non._ ” Kai chuckled, looking up and pulling his phone from his pocket. “You…” he flicked through is camera roll on his phone, “remember the girl I was dating back home?”

“Emilié? Clara? Gemma?”

Kai shot him a disgruntled look. “The chocolatier.”

Kuroo squinted, trying to think back to his days in Paris—he and Kai were roommates, sharing an apartment in the heart of the city. Late nights cleaning kitchens as apprentices, early mornings making breads and candies. It was hard to imagine any sort of social life, but Kai managed it heartily, always having a lovely girl on his arm. Kuroo couldn’t remember which one was which…

“Amalie,” Kai told him, turning his phone around and showing a picture of the two of them at a café. She was pretty, brunette and full figured, with a bright smile and smart as a whip. Kuroo had liked her, now that he remembered her.

“Ah, _oui, elle. Je m’en rappelle. Alors, quoi?_ Why does she matter?” he said, then paused. “I didn’t… mean that to sound rude.”

Kai shook his head. “No, no. I understand. It was a long time ago.”

“And…” Kuroo was remembering, slowly, “You fought a lot.”

Kai nodded sighing. “About money… and marriage… and all sorts of things.” He leaned back in his chair. “But… we never stopped talking. We have been friends for years, _tu sais?_ ”

“Mhm-hmm.”

“And… we’ve been talking”—he faltered, frustrated because he couldn’t think of the word he was searching for fast enough—“t _alking…_ intimately.”

Kuroo blinked. “Oh?” Kai made a rolling gesture with his hands and suddenly Kuroo understood. “Oh! Like dating?” He groaned. “Really? Long distance?”

“Yes, yes, long distance. And… she has asked me to come home.”

Kuroo groaned again with more feeling. “Oh, no. She’s taking you from me. Again!”

“No, it is not like that. _Je l’aime_. I love her.” He flipped to a new picture and held it out to Kuroo.

He took it and saw on the screen a photo of a lovely diamond set in a twisting silver ring. “Oh,” Kuroo breathed softly, “lovely. Damn, you’re really happy with her, then?”

“I want to make her my wife,” Kai said sincerely. “I love her and she loves me.”

Kuroo handed the phone back. “When?”

“I want to go home by Christmas.”

“So you plan on training your replacement in less than two months?” Kuroo leaned back on his hand, eyeing him dubiously. “Who are you thinking, by the way?”

Kai smiled, shrugging. “Who are _you_ thinking, Chef?”

Kuroo laughed. “There’s really only one choice.”

“Ah, _je le pense aussi._ ”

“I’ll tell him today,” Kuroo said, “and we can start him on the grill tomorrow.”

“It will not take long. He is very good already.”

“Oh, I know.” Kuroo laughed. “He’ll do fine.”

 

* * *

 

Later, well before service, Kuroo pulled Bokuto over to his station. “Can we talk?”

Bokuto stared at him, brows drawing down, fidgeting with a bandaid on his finger. “Did I do something wrong, Chef?”

Beside them, Kai laughed and Bokuto glanced over nervously.

“No! No, no.” Kuroo smiled. “You’ve done nothing. I was wondering, though, how long do you plan on staying here?”

Bokuto stared at him, confused, looking frightened. “I—I don’t know. As long as I can.”

“Ah, good,” Kuroo grinned, gently hitting him with his towel. “How do you feel about a promotion?”

Bokuto grinned, eyes widening. Clearly he had thought he was about to get fired or something. “What, really?”

Kai said, “Don’t tell many people just yet, but I am leaving at Christmas.”

“We both think you would be a good fit for _sous_ ,” Kuroo said, nodding his approval. “If you want it.”

Bokuto glanced between them, smile widening, then faltering when he realized what their words meant. “You’re leaving?” He looked disheartened.

Kai smiled fondly at him. “It is a good thing, my friend. I go to follow my heart.”

Bokuto looked him over, a smile pulling at his mouth even though he still didn’t look overjoyed at the thought of losing him. “I’m happy for you, then. And,” he turned to Kuroo, “yes, of course. I’d do anything to help.”

“It’s a lot of responsibility,” Kuroo told him.

Bokuto beamed, chest puffing out and cheeks flushing with pride. “I can do it!”

“ _Formidable!_ ”

Kuroo nodded, clapping a hand on Bokuto’s shoulder. “Wonderful,” he echoed in English, laughing. “Get back to work. We’ll start your training tomorrow.”

Just then Oikawa burst in through the door, along with the rest of the front of house staff. Kenma followed worriedly, moving faster than Kuroo had seen him in an effort to grab a newspaper from Oikawa’s hand.

“Kuroo!” Oikawa called out, waving the paper about. “Do you get _The Times?_ ”

“…No…” Kuroo said nervously, because he’d learned that _that_ smile that Oikawa got meant something had happened, but the nuances of whether the thing was good or bad were still lost on him.

Oikawa’s smile widened and he brandished the paper to him, folded to a specific page. “Read this,” he declared. “Aloud, if you would.”

Kuroo gave him a curious look, glanced at Kenma who looked even more nervous than he felt. He cast his eyes own to the paper in his hand and scanned the page, unsure of exactly what he was looking for. “What am I supposed to—”

Then he saw it. Tsukishima’s pen name (Taylor Blake, which he had discovered the day after his visit to the restaurant) and a paper version of the digital blog post. _Kitchen Portrait._ He turned away to read it, making several people utter noises of complaint. Even the other chefs had stopped their work and peer curiously over at him. Everyone knew what it was, probably by the look on his face. Glancing down the article, he saw several phrases immediately: _pleasantly surprised at the décor; a quaint, wholistic approach to food unmatched by most in the city; windows finally lacking curtains, letting in light from the city that bathed the soft white walls with life; elegant dishes, full of more flavor for their simple natures; decadent dishes; creativity unfounded; desserts that defied imagination in the most wonderful way…._

It went on, but Kuroo’s head was spinning far too fast. Bokuto was beside him, crowding over his shoulder to read the paper. He handed the paper to Bokuto, who immediately unfolded it with a loud crinkling sound and laid it flat on the counter so everyone could crowd around. He began to read aloud, loud and excited as everyone pushed forward, chefs and waitstaff, porters and dishwashers, all eager to learn the fate of their work. “ _An honest critique is unbiased and faithful,_ ” Bokuto began, “ _However, I find myself drawn to this place and it’s quaint, wholistic approach to food more so than I have been drawn to anything in a long time. The chef himself is dedicated to freshness and integrity_ —”

But Kuroo had moved away, going to his office and closing the door, dropping into his chair and pulling the red bandana from his hair. His hands shook with emotions, too many to name. He opened his mouth to speak, to himself, to tell himself that it was alright, that he was fine, that this was the best thing that had ever happened to him, other than going to France and finding the restaurant in the first place.

But his mouth felt too full, his tongue heavy, his jaw trembled. He pressed his hand to his face, the smile stretching on his face so wide it hurt. He hadn’t expected or even asked Tsukki to do this for him, but it was wonderful. It would bring in so much business…

The Times.

His restaurant had a rave review published in _The New York Times_.

It was unfathomable. It was amazing. Stupendous. He dug his phone from his pocket and called Tsukki, unsure what he was going to say. But he had to talk to him.

After only a few rings, he answered: “Yes?”

“ _Tu est formidable,_ ” was the only thing Kuroo managed to say.

It made Tsukishima laugh, the sound bright and happy in Kuroo’s shell-shocked ear. “I’m sorry?”

“You,” Kuroo repeated, “are … wonderful.”

“Ah,” Tsukishima said, sounding smug. “You found the review.”

“You were extremely favorable.”

“Hm… I might be just a bit biased,” Tsukishima said, the smile audible in his voice. “But not much. I really do believe that you’re one of the better chefs I’ve known.”

Kuroo laid his head on his desk, overwhelmed with joy. “You were too kind. Really, I can’t thank you enough.”

“Don’t thank me—I was just telling the truth.”

“ _Formidable._ ”

Tsukishima laughed again. “I’m about to meet a friend. We’ll talk tonight?”

“I’ll make dinner.”

“As you do.”

 

* * *

 

 

During service, Bokuto’s phone rang. He ignored it, of course, he was too busy to answer a phone call.

“Bo!” Kuroo called. “Need veg now.”

Bokuto spun, sautéing squash to make sure nothing was burned before he slipped across the line saying, “Behind, behind,” and dropping it onto the pass.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, again, and he slapped the side buttons to turn it off. “Dammit,” he muttered as he came back to find that he hadn’t made enough rice. As he snatched another pot from the rack his phone buzzed again, insistent. So he took it out and saw it was an unknown number, and of course he hung up, because he didn’t have time to deal with strangers. But before he could even put it back it was ringing again—same number.

Exasperated, he put it to his ear and said, “ _What?!_ Who the fuck is this? I’m busy.”

“It’s me,” Matsukawa said from the other end.

Something inside Bokuto twisted painfully at his tone, too quiet, too reserved. “Mattsun? How’d you get—wait, what’s happened?” He froze, one hand hovering over the stove, spoon in hand. Beside him, Yamamoto made a face that said _what the fuck are you doing, get off the phone._

Bokuto turned away from him, found that he was facing the rest of the line, and stepped away, snapping his fingers at Inuoka to take over for him.

Matsukawa was quiet a moment, then, worriedly: “I’m sorry to call… I know you’re at work.”

“What’s going on?” Bokuto asked, snapped almost. Something wasn’t right.

“It’s Keiji,” Matsukawa said, voice tense with his professionalism. “He’s fainted. He hit his head and he’s in the hospital…”

Bokuto frowned, the breath in his lungs felt like there wasn’t enough oxygen. “Is—is he okay?” Matsukawa didn’t answer for a moment, too long. Bokuto nearly shouted into the phone, “Mattsun!”

“He hasn’t woken up yet. But they don’t—they don’t think he has brain damage. Just some swelling. But…”

“I’ll be there. Where?”

Matsukawa’s voice was a rush of relief, “Presbyterian.”

It wasn’t too far. He’d catch a cab. “Give me half an hour.”

“Thanks,” Matsukawa said. “Text me when you get here and I’ll tell you where we are.”

Bokuto hung up, staring at the blank screen and just now noticed his hands were shaking. He turned, wanting to scream, and found Kuroo standing right behind him, a tense, worried look on his face.

“I —…” Bokuto gasped, heart in his throat. “I have to go.”

“Go?” Kuroo echoed, confused. “We’re in the middle of service.”

Bokuto looked down at his hands, clenching them into fists until his nails dug painfully into flesh, the cutlery tattoo on his wrist jumping with his veins, pain shooting up his left arm. It brought him back to himself just a little. “He’s in the hospital…”

Kuroo scowled then put an arm around him and steered him towards the walk-in cooler. After the door closed Kuroo placed both hands on his shoulders to get his attention. “What’s going on?”

The cold air raced down Bokuto’s throat, searing his lungs as he gasped for air to try and tell the words that were shattering his heart. “Aka… Keiji… He—he fell? I guess. He’s not woken up from it… I—that’s all I know. God—what if he’s…”

Kuroo gripped his coat, shaking him gently. “Don’t. Don’t do that to yourself,” he scolded. “Just go. Go to him. We’ll take care of it. Call me later and let me know what’s going on. Okay?”

Bokuto’s voice barely worked. “Okay.”

“Go,” Kuroo said, steering him out of the cooler and pushing him towards the locker room. “Don’t do anything stupid on your way. Look both ways when you step into traffic.”

Bokuto nodded, barely hearing him, moving on muscle memory to change and pull on his hoodie against the October chill. He grabbed his bag and, ignoring the gazes of the others as he moved ghost like through the kitchen, ran out the back door and down the alley, waving his arm madly to try and hail a cab.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (oops.... pressed the wrong button and posted it a few hours early... OH WELL. )
> 
> French Translations:  
> Puis-je t'parler - Can we talk?  
> Quoi de neuf - what's up?  
> Tu n'es pas blessé - you're not hurt [are you]?  
> Je m'en rappelle - I remember her  
> Alors, quoi - so, what?  
> Je l'aime - I love her  
> je le pense aussi - I think so too


	21. sear

The glass doors to the hospital slid open before him and Bokuto pushed past the small assembled crowd waiting at the front desk and made his way towards the emergency room. Just as he stepped in the waiting room ( _coppery scent of blood, sharp smell of fear, faces wet with tears looking up at him as if he was their loved one coming inside, perfectly okay from whatever tragedy had befallen them_ ) Matsukawa stood from his chair and intercepted him as he raced towards the front desk. He grabbed Bokuto's left hand, hiding it with his body as he slipped a thick silver ring on his ring finger. It was too small, almost cutting the skin on his knuckles, but Matsukawa did it firmly, saying softly, “I told them you're married.”

 _Oh_. Bokuto wouldn't have been let in the room otherwise. It was why Matsukawa and Hanamaki, who had stood nervously and walked over to stand with them, eyes red, were here in the waiting room and not back wherever Akaashi was.

“Where is—” Bokuto began, voice breathless from his fear.

Matsukawa cut him off. “Tell the receptionist you're here. I said you were coming.”

Bokuto nodded, moving to the desk in a daze. “Excuse me?”

The receptionist looked up at him over her thin, wire frame glasses. She was older, and very much looked like she would kick you out if you made a fuss in _her_ waiting room. “Can I help you sir?” She asked it automatically, in a tone of voice that said she did this all day, every day, her level of compassion dropping considerably the longer she'd been here. Bokuto could only assume she'd been here all day by the tone she now had.

“My”—his mouth faltered on the word—“husband was brought here earlier. He fainted. Akaashi, Keiji.” His insides were rolling with worry, so much that it physically hurt to breathe.

The woman said curtly, “May I see identification please?” She typed on her computer, not even looking at him until he dug out his drivers license from his wallet and handed it to her. She raised one eyebrow. “This isn’t the name on the form.”

Bokuto swallowed frustration and worry. “We _just_ got married,” he tried to explain, rushing to come up with the lie. “Haven’t had time to fix the paperwork or anything.”

She looked him over, eyes narrowed, then seemed to believe him (or decided she didn’t care all that much) because she passed his license back and pressed a button beside her and spoke into it, but her words were clipped and in hospital jargon that Bokuto’s addled brain couldn’t comprehend.

A few moments later a nurse in too bright yellow scrubs came through the doors, the receptionist pointed at him, and the nurse waved him over. “I’ll take you to your husband,” she said as he followed her through the door. He spared a glance back towards Matsukawa and Hanamaki and saw Hanamaki collapse into one of the chairs against the wall as the door closed on them, overcome with tears.

“Is he okay?” Bokuto asked, the words rushing out.

She smiled at him, a very detached smile that made his stomach flip upside-down. “I’ll let the doctor in charge of his chart tell you, m’kay? He’s not awake yet, but I really don’t know anything else. I’m sorry.”

So he followed her silently, glancing around at the busy halls as they walked. Nurses bustled about, all to their purpose of healing. Bokuto felt small here. Hallways and door frames were wide enough for patients in beds, for emergencies, for companies of nurses trying to save lives. It frightened him, the thought of Akaashi being whisked through these doors, unresponsive. The nurse took him to a small, private room, waving him in. Akaashi was in the bed… but he did not look like he was sleeping. He wasn’t awake, but the tangle of cords and IV’s around him made Bokuto’s heart clench in pain. He moved forward, stumbling, unable to breathe as he reached Akaashi’s side. Reaching out, his hand hovered over Akaashi’s cheek, too afraid to actually touch him. He turned, to ask the nurse if he was even allowed to touch him but she was gone, the door was closed, and they were alone.

He blinked at the suddenness of it, then stared down at Akaashi—prone in the bed, eyes closed, his face sunken and hollow, the sheet that covered him unable to hide his thinness. There was the faintest tint of pink to the side of Akaashi’s face where the blood stain wasn’t quite washed away, thick black stitches holding together the skin at his temple. Bokuto moaned somewhere in his chest, unable to actually get any sound out, and sunk down onto the chair beside the bed, head in his hands. He looked through his fingers then reached over and ran the tip of his finger down the delicate bones of Akaashi’s hand, worried more than ever that it would snap under gentle ministrations.

Somewhere in the hospital there came a wail, louder through the air vents. It was the physical sound of a heart breaking, never to be whole again. Bokuto’s own heart clenched in sympathy, his throat closing with the thought that… that pain could be his… if Akaashi never—

There was a knock at the door and a doctor stepped in, slightly older, white coat, clipboard. He had a look of professional sympathy that made Bokuto’s stomach twist. “You’re the husband?”

Bokuto nodded slowly, still uncomprehending. The metal ring on his finger still bit into his skin, and he hoped the doctor didn’t notice how it obviously wasn’t his. Or, if he noticed, that he wouldn’t comment on it.

“Well,” the doctor was saying, reading over the chart then taking a slow breath and seeming to prepare himself. It caused Bokuto to look up at him worriedly. “As of now, the swelling in his head has gone down. I don’t believe the cut will scar too badly.” He said it quickly, perfunctory, just reading down the chart. “We’re giving him fluids for dehydration and starting a nutritional rehabilitation through liquid IV’s. I’m suggesting a treatment program, I can give you cards for the facilities I recommend. I’m hoping that between the IV’s, the in-house psychiatrist we have, and your support we can discharge him to a facility that can help him more fully when his body is out of danger of starving itself.”

Bokuto stared at him, mouth opening and closing. “Wait—” he said, stumbling over the words, then standing as if he could find them easier that way. “Wait, what are you talking—” But he stopped himself. Everything inside him clenched tight. He took several deep breaths before collapsing back into the chair.

The doctor said after a moment, voice a bit harder in consternation, “Sir. Were you not _aware_ of your husband’s eating disorder?”

 _No…_ Bokuto wanted to say, but he couldn’t force the word out. Because, yes, somewhere in his mind he knew. Of course he knew. He just hadn’t wanted to believe it. He’d been a fucking idiot. He rubbed his face with his hands, flinching as the ring pulled on his skin. “I—… I don’t know.”

The doctor gave him a disapproving half glare, as if it was Bokuto’s fault that Akaashi had gotten this bad. Bokuto looked over at Akaashi in the bed, reaching out and taking his fingers in his hand.

The doctor shook his head. “Well, if you hadn’t noticed, he’s suffering from anorexia nervosa. Do you understand what—”

“I know what it is,” Bokuto mumbled.

“His body mass is about fifty, sixty pounds underweight,” the doctor rattled off, impervious to the pain Bokuto felt with each word. He should have _known._ He should have _seen._

“He’s anemic, he’s got low blood pressure, dangerously low on every essential vitamin his body needs, low white-cell count. I’m sure there’s damage to his heart and bones… do you understand?”

Bokuto nodded slowly, head in his hand. “Yes.”

The doctor stood still a moment, then reached over and put a hand on Bokuto’s shoulder. “But, the good news is, if he can regain the weight and get the proper help, proper counseling, he can recover.”

Bokuto sat still, then shifted away from the doctor. “Alright,” was all he could manage.

After a moment the doctor said, “I’ll get those brochures. And more information for you about treatment.” He backed out, closing the door softly behind him.

Bokuto leaned on his hand then turned and lay his head on the bed, pressing his forehead to Akaashi’s hand, panic rising, trying to push it down. He’d known, he’d tried to help by simply making him _good_ food. But clearly it hadn’t worked. It was the exact wrong thing to do. He’d fucked up. And Akaashi was suffering, he hadn’t _seen_ it, but now that he knew… would he be able to help? Or would Akaashi be all alone in this, too?

 

* * *

 

The restaurant was finally empty, the tables cleared of patrons. After Bokuto had left, Inuoka had stepped into his station; it had been a madhouse for several tables until he’d gotten situated, but afterwards it had gone more or less smoothly. But still, even after all these months Inuoka wasn’t confident in himself, and would spend too long second guessing his food and his own abilities. Too long during the heat of service.

Kuroo worried about Bokuto and periodically checked his phone for information, but he hadn’t called. He didn’t know the model, and had gotten over his resentment for him after Bokuto’s violent outburst, so the worry he felt for the both of them was genuine. Especially the way Bokuto felt about the man, Kuroo couldn’t imagine how it would crush his friend if something happened to the model.

Yamamoto sidled up beside him, face pinched and nervous. “Chef… is… is Bo okay?”

Kuroo looked up at him from wiping down the pass. “I don’t know yet, Tora,” he said honestly.

Yamamoto’s face fell. Other than Kuroo, he was closest to Bokuto in the kitchen. They worked side by side every day and night and were with each other for at least eight or nine hours a day. “Can I help?”

Kuroo sighed, straightening and giving him a small smile. “Not yet, I’m afraid. Trust me, if I can think of anything we can do, you’ll be the first to know.”

Yamamoto looked away, fiddling with the towel in his hand. “Will he come back?”

Kuroo hesitated, because he’d had that thought too. Surely, though. Surely, eventually. “I’m sure he will,” he said, scrubbing at a piece of sauce that had dried. “Don’t worry.”

Yamamoto nodded, looking forlorn as he moved towards the back rooms to get the mops out. Kuroo took a moment to compose himself—the sudden idea of Bokuto being _gone_ from the restaurant was a very difficult one indeed, especially since he’d basically chosen him as his next right hand. It was worrisome. If he didn’t come back then Kuroo had made a bad choice for _sous_ … but that could be worked out later, once the dust settled. He pulled out his phone and, against his better judgement, dialed Bokuto’s number.

It didn’t take long, but when Bokuto answered his voice was quiet, muted by the proximity of sick patients and signs posted that said _No Cell Phone Use_ which everyone ignored. “Hey.”

“Bo,” Kuroo said, trying to sound the appropriate amount of worried but friendly. “Do you—… how is he? Are you alright?”

Bokuto was quiet for a long moment, the only sounds the far away echo of static as their phones connected through radio waves. “No,” he said finally.

Kuroo took a long, slow breath. Had something happened to the model that was irreversible? Surely… he hadn’t died? “Do you want me to come up there?”

He heard Bokuto swallow, could hear his mouth searching for words. “No… it wouldn’t help. You couldn’t come back here anyway.” He heaved a sigh, and Kuroo could hear how close he was to breaking. “I don’t know… Keiji is really sick…”

“Oh,” Kuroo muttered. “Well, he’s at the hospital, they can help him, right?”

“I mean… yeah. Sorta.” Bokuto groaned softly, “I can’t… I don’t really—it’s not my place to tell…”

“That’s fine,” Kuroo told him. “Seriously. I just wanted to call and check on you. Do you want me to bring you food?”

“No… I probably can’t stay overnight, anyway… not where he is now.”

Kuroo paused, thinking. He knew that, technically, Bokuto was a fully fledged adult and that he was perfectly capable of surviving a night of anxious, distressed anguish on his own. But his worry for his friend was at the forefront of his mind. “Why don’t you come over to my place?”

Bokuto was silent a moment. “Why?”

“Because it’s closer,” Kuroo said, trying to figure out the map of the city in his mind and if that was true or not. If it wasn’t, it was only by a few minutes.

“Uhm… I don’t know, Chef, it’s…”

“Please,” Kuroo said. “It would make me feel better. I’ll bring you some food home. You need to eat, and I know you haven’t.”

“…I guess.”

“You remember where I live?”

Bokuto sighed. “Uhm… only vaguely.”

“I’ll text you the address. You’ll come?”

For a long moment Bokuto said nothing, and Kuroo thought he’d outright refuse, but then he made a half pitiful sound, as if nothing mattered anymore. “Yeah, sure.”

“Come whenever, okay? I’ll be home soon.”

“Take your time,” Bokuto told him. “I’m going to stay for as long as I can. But I think they’ll make me leave within the hour.”

Kuroo nodded, remembered Bokuto couldn’t see him, and said, “Alright. If I’m not home you can go to my neighbor—to the right—and he can let you in my place, he’s got a key.”

“Seems dangerous,” Bokuto commented half heartedly.

“It’s not, not with him.” Kuroo chuckled. “I’ll see you soon.”

“See you…” And he hung up.

Kuroo turned and found Kai looking at him. He hesitated, unsure if he should even ask, would it be fair? “Kai, I have a favor… I need to go, I’m making Bo come to my place so I was going to take him food.”

Kai eyed him cooly for a long moment, then a small, worried smile spread on his face. “If you did not go, I would chastise you. Make sure our friend is alright, yes? We need him.”

Kuroo laughed. “I intend to.” He went to the pantry and, against his better judgement, took a small bag of shrimp. He went back to Kai, rattling off the things he knew still needed to be done, worried about leaving his baby unsupervised.

Kai cut him off halfway through his monologue of tasks. “You remember,” he said, squinting at Kuroo with a leveled gaze, “At _Benoit_ I was _your_ superior. I know what needs be done. Go home.”

Kuroo laughed softly. “Ah, yes, _t’as raison_. _Merci, frère, à bientôt._ ”

Kai waved him away, and Kuroo moved to the back door. He paused, looking back, anxious. But the brigade was in good hands. Then a thought occurred to him as he saw Yamamoto scrubbing furiously at a section of tile on the floor with a mop and Fukunaga carrying dishes and plates back from the dish room, steaming with their cleanliness, to stack in their proper place above the pass. His brigade, even without himself or Kai to tell them what to do, wouldn’t leave the kitchen until it was spotless.

So, for the first time since its inception, Kuroo left _je sais pas_ early, the first to leave, and not a soul did anything other than encourage him to go.

 

* * *

 

By the time he got home Bokuto was already there, crouched against the wall, smoking with one hand, his other pressed so far into his hair it looked like he was trying to rip it out.

Kuroo stopped beside him and nudged him with his hand. “Come on. Let’s go up.”

Bokuto looked up at him, his eyes lost and far away for a moment until he managed to focus on Kuroo’s face. Kuroo reached down and took his wrist, pulling until Bokuto stood up. He plucked the cigarette from his fingers and stuck it in the receptacle beside them, then took Bokuto’s arm and steered him inside and into the elevator. Bokuto leaned hard against the wall, dropping his head back so it hit the mirrored wall with a loud _thunk_ and closed his eyes. Kuroo could see the fast, fluttery pulse in his throat, the muscles in his jaw jump as he ground his teeth, and a too tight ring on his finger that looked dangerously close to cutting off the circulation. That was weird, Kuroo thought, but he didn’t think now was the time to ask.

Kuroo had to pull him out of the elevator and bring him to his apartment, plop him on the couch and take his duffle bag from him. Bokuto was the definition of a man lost. Kuroo didn’t know what happened to his little model but whatever it was Bokuto was not okay with it. He hadn’t realized that Bokuto cared so much for him, nor that his displacement would bring such despair to his friend. It made even Kuroo want to go find the model and take care of him, just so that his friend would be happy. He texted Tsukishima as he set out his _mise en place_ , saying that he was home early, he had a friend, but that Tsukishima could still come over for dinner, just that his friend was having a hard time.

He set water to boil, then inched around to the living room and leaned over Bokuto. “Hey, are you okay to shower?”

Bokuto sighed, the sound shaky. “Yeah, sure.”

“Do you have clothes?” Kuroo asked, reaching out to touch his arm when he stood, worried that he would simply fall over.

“Mhm.” Bokuto’s tone was noncommittal but he scooped up his bag and stepped towards the bathroom door when Kuroo told him where it was.

While he was in the shower Kuroo cooked, making something he thought Southern born Bokuto would enjoy. Tsukishima came in halfway through, bringing Madame Cera with him, and looking concerned.

“Kei.” Kuroo smiled, coming around to kiss him and pet Madame.

Tsukishima gave him a small smile. “You taste like lemons. Where’s your friend?”

“Showering,” Kuroo said, stepping back to his pot and stirring the soft white meal. He tasted it, not done yet, but still good, so he dropped bacon in a pan to sizzle.

“What’s wrong with him?”

Kuroo sighed. “Nothing with him, other than heartbreak, I think. His boyfriend is in the hospital. That’s all I know, though.”

Tsukishima glanced towards the bathroom, nudging Madame with his foot when she tried to pad into the kitchen. He trapped her between his legs and she mewled at him, rolling onto her back and clawing at his foot playfully. “That’s worrisome…” he said. “Is there anything we can do?”

Kuroo looked up at him from flipping his bacon. “We?”

Tsukishima shrugged, jabbing his toe gently into Madame’s stomach and wiggling. “Well, if you lose your chef friend you’ll be upset. I don’t want you to be upset; so, yes, we.”

“How thoughtful.” Kuroo smiled at him. “But I’m not sure there’s anything we _can_ do, unfortunately.”

Tsukishima gave him a sad smile. “So you’re making him food, as you always do.”

Kuroo huffed, pointing at him with his tongs. “And what’s wrong with that?”

Tsukishima leaned over to him, kissing his cheek, pressing his nose to Kuroo’s shoulder. “Nothing at all.”

Kuroo pressed his lips to Tsukishima’s head for a moment before leaning away and working on some parsley and scallions. Bokuto came in at that moment, shirtless and with gym shorts on, toweling his hair dry. He paused when he saw Tsukishima, shocked at the addition of a new person. But he looked better, as if the shower had restored some of his constitution.

“Hello,” Tsukishima said, smiling, always polite.

Kuroo waved a hand between them. “Bo, this is Tsukishima; Tsukki, one of my best chefs, Bokuto.”

This way of introduction seemed to please Bokuto, for he puffed up just a bit with pride at being praised by Kuroo. “It smells good in here.”

Kuroo beamed, taking his shrimp and dumping it all in his his pan. Bokuto inched forward, peering into a pan and his smile spread as he realized what Kuroo was making.

“You cooking southern for me, chef?”

Kuroo laughed. “Here it’s just Tetsu, not chef. But yes.”

Bokuto grinned, pleased, even though the shadow of worry was still in his eyes. “Have you ever _been_ to the south Mr. City Boy?”

Kuroo chuckled. “I think you’ll like it.”

Madame Cera peeked around the counter, eyeing Bokuto warily. He smiled at her and crouched, holding out a hand. She inched backward, eyes widening. So Tsukishima reached into the pan and plucked a shrimp from it and handed it to him. Bokuto peeled the steaming shrimp with swift, sure fingers and held it out. “Come on.”

And Madame, considerably more plump than when Kuroo had met her, waddled forward with an audible purr and took it from his fingers. While she ate Bokuto scratched at her ear, pleased with himself for taming her. “Who’s this?”

Kuroo and Tsukishima spoke at the same time:

“Madame.”

“Her name is Cera.”

They looked at one another and Kuroo laughed while Tsukishima rolled his eyes.

Kuroo said, “I call her Madame, but _apparently_ her name is Cera.”

Bokuto looked between them, eyebrows raised. “Okay,” he said slowly, chuckling. “She’s cute.”

Tsukishima looked pleased, and Kuroo took a moment to plate up their dinner: cheesy grits with lemon and parsley, sautéed shrimp, all sprinkled with bacon. His high class version of a classic Southern comfort dish.

Bokuto smiled at it and when Kuroo handed a dish to him he took it to the table and sniffed at it, Madame wriggling along between his feet because he’d been the last one to feed her and she was still hopeful.

“I bet you it’s better than your mother’s.” Kuroo grinned as he and Tsukishima joined him at the table with their own plates.

Bokuto quirked one eyebrow, one side of his mouth rising in a disbelieving smirk. “Ain’t nothin’ better’an my momma’s,” he said, allowing his true Southern drawl to come forth for the first time Kuroo had ever heard, and he found that he liked it. It was endearing.“Well, actually, it’d be my dad or my Grammie. My mom can’t cook for shit.” But he was stirring his food, taking a bite, and sighing with pleasure. “Damn, bro,” he said through his bite, “this shit’s good.” He pointed his fork at him. “Not _Grammie_ good, but still damn good.”

Kuroo laughed, nodding, accepting this. “I thought you’d like it.”

“So,” Bokuto glanced between them again, “how do you two know each other?”

Kuroo smiled and he saw Tsukishima’s cheeks color a bit. “Well, this was the cat that opened my fridge.”

Bokuto barked a laugh. “No shit?”

“Yes, it’s her talent and my curse,” Tsukishima said with another dramatic roll of his eyes. “I have to childproof all my cabinets and drawers, too.”

Kuroo waved his fork. “Oh, and do you remember the review that we got? The really bad one—then the really good one?” He pointed his own fork at Tsukishima with raised eyebrows.

Bokuto gasped with dismay and shock. “You? Damn, dude, you didn’t have to be so cruel the first time. Nearly broke our hearts.”

Tsukishima chuckled, shaking his head. “I already apologized.”

“And I liked the curtains.”

Kuroo pointed at him excitedly. “Me too!”

Tsukishima frowned, giving them both an aggravated look. “That was the ugliest shade of red I’ve ever seen—and that lace pattern, Tetsu, my god, what were you thinking?”

Kuroo scowled, rolling his eyes and stuffing shrimp in his mouth. He had _liked_ those curtains and Oikawa had taken them out back and _burned_ them as a sacrifice to the culinary gods in an exaggerated ceremony. He looked across the table at Bokuto, who had stopped eating and was poking forlornly at his grits. Kuroo and Tsukishima exchanged glances, and the room was silent other than Madame purring softly under the table, meowing every now and then, asking for food.

After a time, Bokuto said in a voice so soft that Kuroo almost missed it, “What do you think makes someone hate food so much?”

Another worried exchange between Tsukishima and Kuroo. Kuroo gaped at him while Bokuto frowned into his plate—he had no idea what to say.

“Thanks, Kuroo, but I’m just… not hungry. It was good, though,” Bokuto said, pushing his food around, slumping a bit.

“What?” Kuroo blanched. “No, dude, you’ve hardly eaten anything. Please eat.”

Bokuto was shaking his head, about to speak, when Tsukishima leaned forward. “Your boyfriend is in the hospital, right?”

Kuroo kicked him under the table—they’d just gotten Bokuto almost cheerful, why the fuck would he bring that up again? Tsukishima glowered at him and waved a flippant hand that meant _stop it!_ Bokuto nodded, giving Tsukishima a strange, puzzled look, not knowing what the one thing had to do with the other.

“And you plan on visiting him tomorrow?” Tsukishima glanced at his watch, realizing it was just past midnight and corrected himself, “Today.”

Bokuto nodded emphatically. “Of course.”

“Then,” Tsukishima told him, “you’ll need your energy. A hospital is a drainage on the body. Worry even more so. Even if you’re not hungry, you should eat so that you’ll have the strength and energy to support him when he needs it.”

Bokuto stared at him, eyes widening a fraction as the words and their truth sank in. “You’re right,” he mumbled, scooping his fork through the grits and stabbing at a piece of bacon. “Yeah, I guess…”

Kuroo looked at Tsukishima, smiling, and Tsukishima shrugged back. The quiet insistence and logic Tsukishima had provided seemed to have penetrated Bokuto’s mind better than what Kuroo was going to say, which was simply: _eat, you big dummy, eat!_

“What happened?” Tsukishima asked, then shot a second, more furious glare at Kuroo as he kicked him under the table again.

Bokuto lowered his head, chewing a piece of shrimp for longer than necessary in order to gather his thoughts. “He… well, he passed out and hit his head on the counter, had a really bad cut…” He motioned to his own temple vaguely. “Had to have… like, five or six stitches?”

Tsukishima was nodding, sympathetic. “That’s not good.”

Bokuto shook his head. “No… and so he… as of me leaving… he hadn’t woken up yet. Like his body just…”—he visibly shuddered, setting down his fork and dropping his head into his hands, fists clenching into his hair—“can’t… keep him awake anymore.”

Kuroo frowned, a nervous tingling making its way up his stomach. “And… what did the doctors say?”

Bokuto moaned softly, the sound of a wounded animal. “So much,” he managed to get out, his voice thick, breaking on the last syllable.

Madame purred loudly, standing on her back legs and pawing at Bokuto’s leg. He looked down at her, reaching down absently to touch her head. She pushed into his fingers and leapt gingerly into his lap. Surprised, he pushed back enough to give her ample room as she curled up on his legs. With one hand he pet her, with the other picking up his fork again when Kuroo reached over and inched his plate towards him.

“The doctor said he’s… suffering from an eating disorder,” Bokuto said, which made Kuroo suppress a gasp. “Has… apparently, for a long time. I… I never noticed. I can’t believe I… ”

Tsukishima said gently, “Sometimes it’s hard to know what others are going through. Don’t blame yourself for not seeing. He probably took special care to make sure you _especially_ would never think to guess.”

Bokuto looked at him, his face a mask of frustration, fear, and worry. “But… when I think back… it seems so obvious.”

Kuroo sighed, nibbling on bacon. “Don’t do that to yourself, dude.”

“I just hope he’ll be… okay. The doctor says that they want him to go into a … program.”

Tsukishima nodded knowingly. “That is what’s best, usually. From what I understand, the recovery process has a better chance of ….” He took a moment, unsure of the word he was searching for and clearly frustrated that he couldn’t find it, _“Sticking_ , I suppose, when done in a group setting, especially in a place that knows how to help them.”

Bokuto stared down at Madame as Tsukishima spoke, nodding along and scratching the cat’s ear. “I know… or at least, that makes sense. I just… I can’t _help_.”

Tsukishima shook his head, but a small smile played at his lips, not a happy smile though. “No… he’ll have to recover on his own. But you can support him.”

“… I will.” Bokuto sighed and laid his hand flat on Madame’s back. “If he wakes up.”

Kuroo scoffed. “He will. Don’t say that.”

Bokuto only took another bite of his grits, looking like it pained him to do so, but he chewed slowly. He didn’t seem inclined to speak anymore, so Kuroo and Tsukishima entertained him with funny stories of Madame Cera and how long it took Tsukishima to figure out that she was the one ripping things from drawers and cabinets and flinging them across the room.

When they were through eating, Kuroo offered his bed to Bokuto, wanting to change the sheets and let him get a good night’s rest before he went back to the hospital.

“But … where will you sleep?” Bokuto frowned, glancing at the living room. “I don’t mind sleeping on the couch.”

“Nonsense,” Kuroo told him, already moving towards the hall closet where he kept extra sheets and toiletries. “I’ll just go next door.”

Tsukishima looked up from his place in the kitchen where he was checking his phone. Bokuto glanced at him, eyebrows raised. “You—oh.”

Kuroo laughed loudly. “Sorry, I guess I didn’t make that clear. Yes, we’re dating.”

“Ohhhh,” Bokuto nodded. “Then yea, sure, a bed sounds nice. You and your fancy ass probably have one of those California King beds with the massage frame or something.”

Kuroo rolled his eyes, grinning. “It doesn’t massage anything. That’s from, like, the seventies.”

Bokuto’s smile spread slowly as he followed Kuroo back to the bedroom. “Ah, but it is a big ass bed.”

“And you better enjoy it,” Kuroo told him, stripping the sheets and dumping them in one corner of his room.

 

* * *

 

“Do you think he’ll be okay?” Tsukishima asked once they were comfortably back in his apartment and he was getting ready for bed.

Kuroo had put Bokuto to bed, and now he was curled up in Tsukishima’s bed, cuddling with Madame and cooing gently to her. He lounged in nothing, his favorite way to sleep, and tried to persuade Tsukishima to do the same with his eyebrows… to no avail. Tsukishima was fond of his soft fleece pajamas. “I think he’ll pull himself together,” Kuroo said, petting Madame’s paw with a finger, then wiggling it when she attacked him. “Especially when he wakes up—the model, I mean, I can’t remember his name. And when he starts the therapy and stuff.”

Tsukishima came and sat on the other side of the bed, setting his glasses aside on the table and clicking off the lamp, throwing the room into half darkness. The light from the city oozed into the room, bathing them in a yellow and orange glow. “ _If_ he does.”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “Some people won’t accept that they need help, or even admit that there’s anything wrong.”

Kuroo raised his eyebrows. “Even in his state? Hospital and all?”

“Sometimes especially then,” Tsukishima said. “But that’s all up in the air right now until he wakes up. I wonder how Bokuto will handle it if he declines help.”

“Not well,” Kuroo suggested, then yelped as Madame got a good bite in on his finger and he jerked it away. She chased him, leaping on him and clawing several long lines of red down his chest. “ _OUCH!_ ”

Tsukishima laughed, too loud, laying back, not even attempting to hide the glee in his voice. “I keep telling you not to tease her like that. Especially when you’re naked. Someday she’s gonna claw something you _really_ don’t want her to get her claws in.”

Kuroo huffed, tugging the comforter protectively up over his genitals while simultaneously trying to keep Madame from attacking his hand again. It didn’t work, and he resorted to unceremoniously dumping her off the bed. She puffed up in indignation and stuck her tail in the air, turning and walking out like he’d offended her. He surely had, since the bed was _her_ spot at all times of the day and night. He turned and curled himself around Tsukishima, hugging him close and pressing his nose to the back of his neck. “If something’s ever bothering you… you’d tell me, right?”

Tsukishima curled his fingers around Kuroo’s arms, holding them as he settled down to sleep. After a long, satisfying yawn he mumbled, “Sure. What would be wrong with me, though?”

“I dunno… I just …” Kuroo closed his eyes, inhaling the sweet scent of clean skin at the base of Tsukishima’s hairline. “I see how hurt Bokuto is. And I’m sure it’s worse for his model but… I don’t know that guy. I know Bo, I know my friend, and I see how broken up about this he is. He blames himself—which he shouldn’t.” He sighed. “I just mean… if there’s ever anything that’s bothering you, I’d like to help. Or at least support you.” He kissed the soft skin of his neck, burying his face in his hair.

Tsukishima chuckled, turning his head to allow Kuroo more full access since he knew that Kuroo liked being there. “If something that serious is ever bothering me, yes, of course. You’ll be the first person I call.”

Kuroo kissed him again, nuzzling in, pulling Tsukishima against him. “I’d appreciate it.”

He was quiet a long time, so long that Madame came back in the room and jumped on the bed, settling herself on Kuroo’s hip so that, even if he wanted to, he couldn’t move. He thought that Tsukishima was asleep, and he drew tiny patterns with his nose into his hair, thinking again that he would be just as fraught with worry and frustration as Bokuto if something ever happened to Tsukishima.

So into the darkness of the bedroom he whispered the words that filled his heart and mind: “ _J’ai mal au coeur… mais ce n’est pas vraiment douloureux. C’est de l’amour, je pense. Je t’aime, mon chaton, je t’aime tellement… je ne pense qu’à toi. Je suis fou de toi. Je prendrai soin de toi._ ”

Tsukishima mustn’t have been asleep, though, because he turned in Kuroo’s arms and snuggled closer, pressing his mouth to Kuroo’s, tucking their legs together, and Madame moved to the corner of the bed, tail flicking at the movement of their feet under the blankets.

“I don’t know what you said,” he whispered, “but it sounded awfully romantic.”

Kuroo smiled against his lips, holding him close and tasting the minty toothpaste he’d used before bed. “Mhm… _c’était._ It was.”

Tsukishima’s hands roamed up Kuroo’s chest, carefully avoiding the fresh cuts, and slid upwards to trail delicately along the muscles of his throat. “Say it again,” he whispered. “In English.”

Kuroo laughed, breathless into the darkness. “It loses all it’s… _je ne sais quoi_ in English.”

“Then say it again in French.” Tsukishima inched forward, lips brushing Kuroo’s, their breath mingling. “Say it until I can taste the words on your tongue and understand.”

Kuroo tried to smile, but it came out a small gasp as Tsukishima darted his tongue out, brushing over his mouth. He took one of Tsukishima’s hands and laid it in his chest. His voice came out in a shaky whisper, “ _Sens-tu mon coeur… comment il bat de plus en plus vite. C’est à cause de toi. Je t’aime._ ” He kissed him, allowed Tsukishima to pull his breath from his lungs as he gasped and moaned, even as Tsukishima pushed himself forward, hooking his leg over Kuroo’s hip. He rolled onto his back, pulling Tsukishima on top of him, hands spreading up his spine to hold him close. “ _T’es beau, tu sais ça? Ta beauté me tuera… mais, ca me va—”_ He rambled, losing track of his thoughts as Tsukishima’s mouth sucked and pressed at the sensitive place on his throat. He was sure Tsukishima could _taste_ the rapid pulse of his heart, beating wildly for him, because of him. _“Je t’aime,”_ he gasped out as Tsukishima kicked the blankets away, pressing their bodies together, only the thin, soft fabric of his pajamas between them. “ _Je t’aime, je t’aime, je t’aime,_ ” he said, over and over, until Tsukishima kissed the words from his mouth, his tongue warm and soft, his hands spreading over his chest.

And when Tsukishima whispered against his mouth, “I love you too,” Kuroo couldn’t stop himself—he slipped his fingers underneath the fabric of Tsukishima’s pants, spreading them along the arch of his hips.

And again, when Tsukishima said with a lilting, perverse smirk, “ _Baise-moi_?” Kuroo growled low in his chest.

“Ah, shit, Kei,” he muttered, voice hoarse with desire as lust bloomed everywhere in his body—a hot itch directly under his skin and the feathery spots of fire brushing his insides, sliding lower with Kuroo’s fingers. “You can’t say such vulgar things to me, god, gonna lose my fucking mind.”

Tsukishima kissed his jaw, bit at his earlobe, moaning directly into his ear, “Don’t stop.”

So Kuroo didn’t, pushing his pants off his legs and kissing him, rambling his love for Tsukishima in French, then English when the second language left him, then losing his words completely as Tsukishima moved with him. Madame left, complaining her displeasure loudly as she trotted out of the room, but they were too busy to notice her, too lost in each other to care even if they did hear her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! Thanks for reading! For _reasons_ I'm going to drop this down to once a week. Probably Mondays - for a little while. Sorry for that, but I promise it'll be worth it so I can take more time writing and making the chapters perfect! (or as close as I can)
> 
> French:  
> t'as raison - you're right
> 
> Kuroo's declaration of love sounds MUCH better in French, and I worried a bit back and forth over whether or not to translate it... but here is better than Google Translate.  
> "My heart hurts... but it isn't really pain. It's love, I think. I love you, [kitten, nickname], I love you so much. I think only of you. I'm crazy about you. I'll take care of you."  
> Later:  
> "Feel my heart, how quickly it beats. It's because of you. I love you."  
> "You're handsome, you know that? Your beauty will kill me, but that's okay with me."  
> And je t'aime is of course: I love you  
> Baise-moi - fuck me ( ✧≖ ͜ʖ≖) eehehe, Tsukki can pick up a dirty French book, yes he can.


	22. sous-vide

Even in the early hours of the morning, the hospital was full of people. It wasn’t packed full but there were too many for Bokuto’s liking. The people were distracted and upset, or frantically asking where their loved one had been moved overnight, or when their surgery was scheduled, or if the nursing staff could _just fucking tell me what happened._

He knew where he was bound, though, so he hefted his bag onto his shoulder and walked quickly down the maze-like hallways—got lost, peered at confusing signs for several minutes, then finally asked where he was supposed to go. He blamed his lack of direction on his lack of sleep. He’d tossed and turned in Kuroo’s (admittedly comfortable) bed all night worrying about Akaashi. When he couldn’t sleep he sat on the balcony, chain smoking almost every cigarette he had, with barely enough forethought to save three for the morning—one when he managed to claw his way from disassociate sleep and two for the walk to the corner store to buy more.

He hoped the smoke didn’t sink into Kuroo’s expensive patio furniture, and he struggled to figure out what to do with the ashes and butts, finally deciding on dumping them in an old glass jar and tossing them in the dumpster in the alley on his way out. He hadn’t waited for Kuroo to come back to his apartment, it was Monday after all and possibly he slept in, but he also didn’t want to be fussed at for smoking, or not sleeping, or worrying too much.

He did find it strange that Kuroo and the critic were dating—but not as strange as all that. He wondered when Kuroo had learned that particular piece of information: before or after the review. _Reviews?_ Plural. Was that why he had come back? Bokuto wondered why Kuroo hadn’t told him of his new found relationship, either. All these questions and more he filed away for later discovery as he came to the right door, finding it cracked, and pushing his way gingerly inside.

The first thing he noticed was that Akaashi was awake, sitting up in bed. The second thing was that there was a male nurse in dark blue scrubs sitting in a corner chair. He had a binder full of paperwork beside him, but instead of doing whatever he was supposed to be doing he sat playing a beeping, blinking game on his phone, completely ignoring the room as a whole.

The third thing he noticed made him frown in confusion and worry.

He moved to the bed, setting his bag down and pulling up a chair. Akaashi wouldn’t meet his eyes, and his hands clenched into small, dainty fists in the restraints that were clamped around his wrists. They were fat and thick, soft looking even though they screamed _prisoner_ instead of _patient_.

“What…” Bokuto muttered, but found himself at a loss for words.

Akaashi pulled tight in on himself, curling as much as the restraints and plethora of IV’s would let him. The nurse in the corner said, sounding bored, “He kept trying to rip out his IV’s. Standard procedure.”

Bokuto blinked at him, stupefied, then sat on the edge of the seat, trying to lean down and get a look into Akaashi’s face. “Your head looks better,” he said gently, trying to keep his voice lighter than he felt.

The cut on Akaashi’s head was better, the swelling had gone down, and the blood stain had been cleaned off so only the stark black stitches were unnerving. Bokuto wondered why they weren’t covered with gauze. Glancing at the nurse, he asked, “So, why are you here?” He wanted to talk to Akaashi. Preferably alone.

The nurse raised one disastrous eyebrow. “He can’t be alone.” He was slouchy and disheveled looking, as if he didn’t have enough sleep or time to get ready in the morning. Bokuto understood this, was sympathetic even, but he worked behind the line with only his co-workers ever seeing him. The nurse worked in and around people so Bokuto thought he should at least attempt some sort of upkeep of appearance. He also didn’t like that the nurse was treating Akaashi like an object to be guarded instead of a patient to be cared for.

“I’m here,” he told the nurse. “You can go.”

Both of the nurse’s eyebrows shot up. His eyes wandered back to his game, longing, but Bokuto let out what he intended to be a huffing breath of impatience, but it sounded more like a bull snorting it’s displeasure and intention to charge, so the man stood, pocketing his phone and gathering his papers. “Don’t let him take the IV’s out.”

Bokuto wanted to say _duh,_ but he resisted, and when the door shut behind him Bokuto turned to look back at Akaashi. Before he could speak Akaashi blurted out, voice sounding distant and pitiful, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s—” Bokuto began, but stopped when Akaashi’s eyebrows twitched, drawing down in pain, eyes closing tight. He took a moment to consider his words. Was it okay? Would it _be_ okay? What did he say to make Akaashi feel better? If there even were words that could do so, he wasn’t sure he was the one who could find them.

He took too long searching. Akaashi said in a shaking, far away breath, “You should go.”

“No,” Bokuto said, scooting closer and reaching out, touching his hand and not letting go when Akaashi flinched away from him. The straps on the bed pulled taut and he whimpered—trapped. Bokuto sighed, something almost like exasperation and almost like fear and mostly like compassion rolling around in his chest. He reached forward and tugged at Akaashi’s arm until he could pull the straps of the restraints off, buckle by buckle, one for each hand. He did it slowly, like he was scared Akaashi would jump up and bolt out the door if he moved too quickly.

Instead of giving him his hands back though, Bokuto held them in his own, holding him just as securely as the straps, but hoping that this wasn’t as painful, since he did it with love. Akaashi’s fingers twitched, his left hand straining towards the needle in his right arm, but Bokuto squeezed gently—oh so gently—and Akaashi mumbled a wordless frustration.

“What happened?” Bokuto whispered, rubbing his thumb in soothing circles over the growing red and pink bruises forming where the restraints had held him too tight or he’d struggled too hard.

Akaashi closed his eyes, fists making tiny movements that Bokuto couldn’t figure out. His feeble muscles tugged, and it took absolutely no effort at all for Bokuto to hold him still. Hatred for himself coiled red and angry in his belly, furious and snarling: _how did you never see? How dare you._

Finally, Akaashi opened his eyes, his gaze downcast, and lighted upon the ring that Bokuto had somehow managed to shove onto his finger. He wasn’t sure why he did it, but thought that _just in case_ he should keep up appearances. It did hurt, though…

“What’s that?” he muttered, and Bokuto had to lean forward to catch the words.

“Oh… it’s—” He sighed, for some reason nervous to tell him. “Mattsun gave it to me. They wouldn’t allow non family members back here to see you…”

Akaashi squinted at it. “It doesn’t fit you.”

“No it does not.”

“Is it his?”

Bokuto shrugged. “Probably.”

Akaashi pulled with one hand and, almost reluctantly, Bokuto peeled his fingers away and allowed Akaashi use of his hand again. He reached over and touched the ring, attempting to pull it off. When it didn’t budge Bokuto released his other hand so he could pry and twist the ring from his finger. He watched as Akaashi’s hands squirmed, then pressed themselves to the bed while he waited. When Akaashi took the ring he flipped it over, turning it to read the tiny engraving scratched inside. His face shifted, mouth turning down and eyebrows pinching in a raw, open expression. He curled his fingers around the ring and clamped it in his fist. “I can’t believe he gave this to you. Give it back to him.”

Bokuto blinked at him. “Well, yeah, I was planning on—”

“No,” Akaashi snapped. “Now.” He thrust the small object towards him, forcing it into Bokuto’s fingers.

“That can wait,” Bokuto said gently. “I want to be here with you for—”

Akaashi pulled away from him. Bokuto almost seized his wrist again, worried he would pull at the liquid life that pumped into his veins, but Akaashi only gripped the sheets, a thickly wound uncomfortable looking blanket. “I want you to go.”

For a moment, Bokuto was speechless. His brain didn’t comprehend the words. _Go?_

“Go?” he echoed.

Akaashi turned his face away, hunching down, tugging his knees up to his chest. “Yes. You shouldn’t be here.”

“I—” Bokuto started, found he had no other words, and stopped. He frowned over at Akaashi. Logically, his brain knew exactly what he was saying. It raced ahead, and behind, remembering everything they’d done together in a moment, envisioning everything they could be together in the future. His heart stayed still—too scared to move on, too frightened to beat and let the infinite moment of their love die.

The moment hung, the sharp medicinal scent of the hospital too light on the air, the white lights too bright, bathing the scene with an ethereal pale glow.

And then his heart, his traitorous heart, beat again. Once. Twice. Three times. Four.

And on. _Ba-dum. Ba-dum._ He lived on. Somehow. His heart a broken, wounded animal that refused to die.

His mouth was so dry he almost choked when he tried to speak. “… Why?”

“I can’t have you here.”

And that was it. He wouldn’t speak more.

Bokuto reached for him, fingers brushing the thin, papery sleeve of the hospital gown. His skin was cold to the touch.

“Don’t,” Akaashi said, voice that broken, wrenching sound of a person who was trying not to cry and failing.

“Keiji…”

“ _Please_.”

Bokuto swallowed his own pleas. He already knew from past experiences that Akaashi was just as stubborn as he was. When he made up his mind, _really_ made up his mind, nothing on heaven or earth could make him budge. Bokuto glanced this way. That way. Found nothing to say or do. He worked through several things he could say but discovered that he couldn’t actually speak them aloud when Akaashi wouldn’t even look at him.

So he stepped back. Turned. Took a breath, then moved back and reached over him, pressing a finger to the bright red call button. Akaashi tensed with his closeness, shrinking away from him. Bokuto pulled away, fist tight around the ring, pressing his teeth so hard together he felt cartilage in his nose pop.

A nurse came in, the same one from earlier, and frowned. “Yes?”

Bokuto silently slid past him, his feet moving down the hall even as his heart dropped pieces in his wake like a lost child leaving a trail of breadcrumbs back home.

 

* * *

 

Back at the models’ brownstone, Bokuto sat with his head in his hands. Mattsun sat on the slouchy armchair opposite him, leaning forward worriedly. Makki was in the kitchen, Bokuto thought, making tea. He vaguely remembered the word _tea_ but not where it had come from or who had said it.

“Bokuto?”

Bokuto made a noise in his throat.

Mattsun sighed. “He’s just upset.”

Bokuto shook his head. “It’s more than that.”

“No,” Mattsun insisted. “He’s upset. He’s frustrated, and he just can’t _deal_ with that he’s going through right now with a rational head. When he feels a little better he’ll come to his senses.”

“Mhm.” They were quiet a moment, the sound of cutlery on porcelain clinking from the kitchen. A thought occurred to Bokuto and he looked up, trying to keep his face neutral and failing to keep his voice the same. “You knew?”

Mattsun’s face didn’t change, he only sat back a bit, eyes glancing away.

“You did,” Bokuto said, snarled really, but with no ferocity behind it. He was too drained to be properly upset.

Mattsun reached up with his hand, pressing his fingers to his temple in frustration. Bokuto wanted to reach over and slap him, or rip the bars from his eyebrows. He thought he saw a new ring in his ear, an extra loop up the lobe that hadn’t been there the last time Bokuto had been here.

“Of course I knew,” Mattsun muttered. “How could I not? I tried to take care of it.”

Bokuto snorted. “ _Take care of it_ ,” he mocked.

“Don’t start with me,” Mattsun snapped back, actual savagery in his voice, unlike Bokuto. “I’ve known him for years. I care for him more than you seem to think.” He leaned all the way back in his chair, slumping, his fingers twitching as if he wanted to reach out for something that wasn’t there. “I think I noticed too late, though… by the time I confronted him about it …” He pressed his fist to his mouth, trailing off inside his memories.

Makki came in from the kitchen just then, carrying a tray of teacups and a kettle. He prepared several cups, making Mattsun’s just the way he liked without having to ask and passing it to him, then raising a questioning eyebrow at Bokuto. When Bokuto only stared at him, Makki just poured his tea and set it on the end of the table for him. He moved to sit on the arm of Mattsun’s chair, and Mattsun’s arm went around him, pressing his face into Makki’s side.

Their intimacy reminded him, and Bokuto reached into his pocket and pulled out the ring. “Here,” he said, holding it out to Mattsun.

Makki’s face went dark, a dark cloud on a sunny day, and Mattsun pulled away from him so he could reach his free hand out to take the ring. “Thank you.”

“What’s the deal with that?” Bokuto asked, looking between them.

Makki’s eyes narrowed, glaring into the corner as he sipped his over creamed tea. Mattsun slid the ring onto his thumb, where it had sat since Bokuto had known him. “It’s a long story,” Mattsun said. “One that I’m not going to get into.” He slid his arm back around Makki’s waist, squeezing his hip. Makki closed his eyes, inhaling slowly, and when he exhaled, he seemed to slide away the frustration and ease himself back to calmness. He didn’t like being reminded of the ring, apparently. Bokuto wondered what the story of it was, but was too exhausted and drained of all empathy to care about asking at the moment.

“How was he?” Makki asked, teacup balanced on his knee.

“Not well, from what I could see. I was there for all of fifteen minutes.”

“When he gets out of the ICU we’ll be allowed to see him,” Mattsun said firmly, like he fully intended to do so even if he wasn’t allowed. “We’ll all go and talk some sense into him.”

Bokuto frowned. “No. He told me not to go back… so I won’t.”

Makki made a face. “Oh, come on, Bo, don’t be that way. He needs you.”

Bokuto shook his head, standing, his tea untouched. “No. I… I mean I want to. But…” He couldn’t say that if he saw that _look_ on Akaashi’s face again he wouldn’t be able to survive it. “Maybe later.”

Mattsun said, “We’ll talk to him, figure out where his head’s at.”

“Why don’t you stay with us?” Makki leaned forward on the chair, smiling.

“You just want me to cook for you.”

Makki laughed a little. “I mean, yeah, but you’re our friend, too.”

Mattsun waved a hand towards the general apartment, seemingly as a confirmation that he was allowed. But Bokuto couldn’t do that. He couldn’t invade Akaashi’s space like that when he wasn’t around to make it a happy place. “No, I can’t. I’m just going to go…” He paused, remembering the handful of clothes he had upstairs. “Get my things.”

Makki pouted, saying, “Oh, come on. We all know Akaashi didn’t mean it.”

Bokuto made a noncommittal noise in his throat and mounted the stairs to the second floor. He paused outside Akaashi’s bedroom, the familiar closed door now a barrier that he was worried he shouldn’t be breaching. But he did—stepping inside the familiar room, and was assaulted by the looks and smells of Akaashi. He always smelled of mint, lavender, citrus, and soap. It _hurt_ how much that smell meant to him. He dug out the clothes he’d kept in a tiny drawer of the dresser, dumping them in his bag and vacating the room in a wild, frightened burst. He couldn’t be around so much of Akaashi when he wasn’t home. He moved into the bathroom, a slow, cold burning rising up in his belly.

He paused at the counter, running a finger along the corner edge. It wasn’t cracked or broken…

But of course it wouldn’t be. It had been Akaashi’s head that had cracked, not the countertop. When he pulled his fingers away, there was a few flakes of dried, crusted blood—brown from how long it had sat. Someone had cleaned up most of the blood but Bokuto had been around blood so often that he could smell it even though it was gone. Taste it in the back of his throat.

He pressed his fingers together, turning the flaking blood to dust, and wondered if he was making the right decision by following Akaashi’s heart stricken order to stay away.

 

* * *

 

The museum lobby was bright, beautiful, and vast. Limestone columns rose all around them to the high ceiling, which was dotted with large, round windows that let in swaths of sunlight. As they walked across the marble floor, Kuroo craned his neck back, and back, amazed at the beauty of the place. It wasn’t that he’d never been to the Met, he’d grown up a school child in the city so he’d been on many field trips here when he was young; but now he understood just how hard it must have been to design and build. To their right an Egyptian sphinx stood tall and proud, black stone glinting in the sunlight.

Tsukishima stopped at the front desk, picking up a map and flipping it open. “This place is huge,” he said, glancing over the map. “The butter exhibit is on the third floor, I think.”

Kuroo stood beside him, peering over his shoulder, cheek on his arm. “Where’s the dinosaur one?”

Tsukishima glanced down at him, and when Kuroo looked up he saw that Tsukishima was smiling. “Let’s find the butter one first, that’s why we came.”

It was easier said than done. The museum was vast, the hallways were more confusing than a maze because of exhibits and hallways that went nowhere and everywhere. The numbers on the exhibits weren’t in order either, further adding to the confusion. They wandered through dim, warm hallways with Egyptian hieroglyphics and cracked red clay statues; brightly lit, vacant rooms with paintings on the walls, tiny lamps hanging over them; a blue carpeted series of rooms with low, low lighting and boxes filled with glittering jewels (including what was considered the largest sapphire in the world); and pointy, illustrious minerals that seemed to glow all on their own.

At one point, Tsukishima stopped, turning towards a rich brown hallway. Kuroo looked at the sign that hung from the ceiling and smiled. “Oh, we found the dinosaurs first. Let’s go look, okay?”

Tsukishima’s face shifted, longing and frustration. Clearly he wanted to go but he was also worried that they’d miss the butter exhibit.

Kuroo put his arm around him, kissed his cheek. Tsukishima wasn’t one for public displays of affection, but as Kuroo steered him towards the hallway, he smiled, pleased.

“Just a few minutes,” Tsukishima promised.

“Of course.” Kuroo smiled back and as they entered the exhibit hall the ceiling rose high, making room for the tall _tall_ series of gray and brown skeletons. Kuroo whistled, impressed at their size. The _Tyrannosaurus-Rex_ he recognized easily with its large head, long swooping tail, and massive legs. The teeth were almost as long as his arm, and he shivered a bit with how small he felt next to the beast, imagining those teeth biting into his stomach and piercing him clean through.

Along with that, he recognized the distinct three pronged skull of the _Triceratops_ , with horns so long they could impale a human without a second thought. That was what Tsukishima had named Cera for and her claws were just as sharp as that thing’s horns looked. And then the long necked dinosaur, which reminded him of Tsukishima’s coffee mug. He said as much, pointing to it, “That’s the bronto-thingy, right? On your coffee mug!”

Tsukishima laughed. “Actually, that’s technically an _apatosaurus excelsus._ It’s the most valid scientific name for him. Know what it means?”

“I don’t speak Latin, so, no,” Kuroo said, smiling. He liked the way Tsukishima’s eyes brightened as he spoke of his passions.

“Deceptive lizard.”

Kuroo raised his eyebrows. “He’s so big, I’m not sure who he’s trying to deceive.”

They moved through the hall, Tsukishima pointing out the other large skeletons: _Stegosaurus_ with their great spines; miniature _Ornitholestes_ that he said were always underfoot, like tiny dogs or chickens; the strange duck-billed _Anatotian copei;_ the great _Ankylosaurus magniventris_ , armored like reptilian tanks. They moved through the rooms, looking at the half assembled skeletons on the walls, the fossils of leaves and bugs and ancient, golden chunks of amber. Tsukishima gasped aloud when he saw, under a dome, a clutch of totally round, huge looking stones.

“What’s that?” Kuroo asked, moving over to read the plate. “Eggs?”

“Yes!” Tsukishima said excitedly, moving closer to peer at them. “Eggs are _so_ rare. I can’t believe they brought these here. I’ve never seen them before.”

“They don’t really look like eggs, do they?” Kuroo crouched beside the large case to get a closer look.

“They’re round, dinosaurs didn’t have the same anatomical constraints of modern birds, and their nests were made differently, so they didn’t need to be oblong to roll near the center.” He walked around the case, smiling to himself, liking the eggs and their rarity.

Kuroo took several seconds to appreciate them, then stood, waiting for Tsukishima to get done with his perusal. It was much longer than Kuroo thought it should be, but instead of interrupting him he simply turned around, glancing at the casts of footprints, the tiny shells and miniature bones of animals that didn’t have enough of a skeleton to exist, and all sorts of leaves cast in stone. He took a second to pull his phone from his pocket, glancing at the screen and wondering why Bokuto hadn’t called him yet. Bokuto had been gone from his apartment early this morning, and he could only assume that since he hadn’t called everything was going well.

He hoped so, and dropped his phone back in his pocket, walking slowly along the wall until he came to portraits, and frowning at them. The one he was looking at looked nothing like he thought a dinosaur should look like. It had a long, slender face, tiny arms, and legs that looked more like an ostrich than anything else. Instead of scales and skin, however, the beast was portrayed with a myriad of itty-bitty feathers: rich chocolate brown, solid black, silvery gray, and every color in between. He looked down at the nameplate: _An illustration of_ Kulindadromeus Zabaikalicus, _the newly found feathered dinosaur._

Kuroo snorted with amusement and beside him Tsukishima asked, “What?”

He turned, surprised, but pleased that Tsukishima was through with his inspection of the eggs. “Feathers? Did you see?”

Tsukishima nodded. “Yes, they’ve found that many dinosaurs would have had feathers. Well, not what we know of as feathers, but like the ancestors of feathers.”

Kuroo gasped. “No!”

“Yes.” Tsukishima almost giggled, almost. His face open and happy, and Kuroo loved seeing it here in public instead of when they were alone in their apartment. “Really. I don’t remember exactly, but most of the dinosaurs we’re pretty certain had feathers were the ‘raptor’ kind. You know?”

“Yeah, like the evil ones in _Jurassic Park?_ ”

Tsukishima rolled his eyes. “No, they’re not like that. Forget those. Those never existed. _Real_ velociraptors were maybe the size of a turkey. They weren’t as clever as they were in the movies, either. In fact, there’s no evidence they had a brain any bigger than an Emu or something—a really _dumb_ bird.”

They moved along the walls, looking at portraits and glancing at plaques as Tsukishima continued to talk: “They had skin _and_ feathers—long feathers on their arms like wings. And short fluffy feathers on their face. And there’s no reason to believe that they were gray and brown, either. They were probably yellow or blue or green, bright colors on their faces. And they had long tails, too, with great big feathers all along it.”

Kuroo stopped in his tracks, staring at him, narrowing his eyes in disbelief. “No fucking way.”

Tsukishima laughed again, delighted in Kuroo’s incredulity. “Yes, really!”

Kuroo shook his head, smiling though. “Weird. I can never watch those movies again.”

They walked the exhibit, Tsukishima rambling happily and copiously with every dinosaur fact that popped into his head. He would sometimes start a sentence and lose himself half way through as they came upon a new fossil and launching in to a new, long winded fact.

Kuroo walked along beside him, stopping when he did, looking at the things he looked at. He didn’t understand half of what he said, especially when he began talking in grand, circuitous monologues. He noticed that several school children followed along behind them, eyeing Tsukishima with looks of rapturous awe.

By the time they had seen everything, it had been at least two hours, but Tsukishima was flushed with happiness, his cheeks bright with his giddiness. Like a kid at Christmas, but _more_. Somehow. Kuroo couldn’t help himself, he reached over and touched his knuckle to his cheek, pleased that the color rose even more. Tsukishima turned away, the smile on his face not fading, but shifting a bit into a less focused, more rounded type of happiness.

As they passed another portrait of a dinosaur, a thought struck Kuroo. He asked, “I wonder what they would taste like if you ate them?”

Tsukishima looked at him with a face that was equal parts _horror, shock,_ and a very specific squinting form of _why the hell would you do that?_ “Why the hell would you do that?”

Kuroo laughed, louder than he should have in the small space, for several people turned to look at him, eyebrows raised with shock. He pressed his hand to his mouth, feeling his smile stretching past his fingers even as he tried to hide it. “Well, they’re edible creatures, presumably. If they were here and we could eat them, I just … y’know, I wonder if it’d be good. My chef’s heart is curious, Tsukki.”

Tsukishima glared at him. “If we ever saw a real life dinosaur and you killed it so you could _eat it_ I. Would. Kill. You.”

Kuroo snickered, pressing his tongue between his teeth and feeling his face scrunch up with his smile. This was the funniest thing he’d done in _weeks_. “Well if they’re like modern dinosaurs, y’know: chickens, sharks—”

“Chickens aren’t dinosaurs.”

“Alligators—”

“They’re descended from dinosaurs.”

“Turtles, crabs, those sorts of animals.”

Tsukishima raised his eyebrows, trying not to look impressed at Kuroo’s knowledge and failing.

“I just wonder,” Kuroo reiterated, “what they would taste like. Like, you know, they’re basically carnivorous chickens, right?”

“No,” Tsukishima huffed. “You wouldn’t eat them—they’d eat _you_ if you lived when they did.”

“Not if I had a spear.”

“They can out run you. You’re too fat to catch them.”

Kuroo huffed, blustering a bit. “I am not!”

Tsukishima laughed, patting his arm. “Well you’re out of shape, anyway.”

“ _Anyway,_ ” Kuroo continued on with his thoughts, “most of them are all muscle, right?”

“We don’t really know what fat they held, since that doesn’t fossilize.”

“Mhm… but still, reptiles, probably. Or chickens. They’re birds—but different birds taste different. Geese, chickens, and ostriches, for example, all wildly different. Textures too.”

They were walking out of the exhibit now, back towards the main hall. Tsukishima was listening, but looking around, reading each sign as they passed. “I suppose,” he was saying. “What sorts of things do you think they would taste like?”

Kuroo had to take a moment to think, luckily he was able to since Tsukishima decided then to go and ask a security guard where they were supposed to be going. He spoke with the guard, pointed at the map, and nodded curtly as the guard made turning and walking motions in giving him directions.

When he came back he flapped a hand and Kuroo fell into step beside him. “You were saying?”

“You know where we’re going?”

“Yes, we’re entirely on the wrong floor.”

Kuroo snorted. “Ha-ha.”

“Shut up, what about the dinosaurs?”

“Wow, Tsukki, for someone so against eating them you’re awfully interested.”

Tsukishima shot him a half annoyed glare, then rolled his eyes as Kuroo only beamed at him. “Just tell me, you dork.”

“ _Pft,_ you wound me. But, yes, the texture and color of the meat would depend on the amount of myoglobin it has in its cells. Myoglobin is what gives meat its red color, and the more of it the more red it is. Cows, for example, have lots of it, so their meat is dark red. Chickens, on the other hand, don’t have as much, since they don’t need oxygen _stored_. They have more fast-twitch muscle fibers, which makes meat white because it doesn’t have as many myoglobin cells. Since they’re usually fast moving creatures. Running towards food or away from predators.”

Tsukishima was nodding along, understanding. “So … the really fast dinosaurs would have white meat. The big, slow ones red meat.”

Kuroo nodded, pointing at him in triumph. “Precisely. So, for example, if we wanted to eat a velociraptor—”

“You couldn’t catch one even if you tried. You’d die.”

“I’d set a trap. Don’t interrupt, I’m on a roll. So—we would catch it, pluck it’s little feathers, and skin it. I imagine they wouldn’t have a lot of fat, so we’d have to add some in. Mhm, maybe wrap it in bacon—or grind the raptor meat up and mix in butter or,” he paused, stopping to groan in pleasure, “bleu cheese. Fuckin’ a, Tsukki, I’m gonna make a delicious raptor burger.”

Tsukishima snickered. “Sounds delicious.”

“Hey, now, I thought you hated the idea of me cooking them?” He smiled, pleased to have brought him over to his side.

Tsukishima shrugged. “What can I say? You’re a great chef, I’d love to eat anything you make to feed me.”

It took them far, far too long to find the correct floor and corner of the building. But when they found it—boy, did it make Kuroo’s insides tingle with—God, anything, everything. He was so happy he was practically horny.

“ _Butter_ ,” he whispered aloud, reverent.

Tsukishima quirked an eyebrow at him, stepping sideways. “Do you need a moment?”

“No,” Kuroo said quickly, moving into the first tiny room. “No, I’m good. Oh, shit, look at it.”

He had stopped in front of a hyper colored photographic shot of the golden cream of the gods. It made him _drool_. He loved butter. So much. It made everything delicious. Bland potatoes? Butter. Weird, boring textures? Add butter. Sauce too spicy? Add butter. Accidentally added a bit too much salt? Add. Fucking. Butter.

Tsukishima touched his sleeve, grinning. “Come on, let’s go learn about butter.”

Kuroo groaned, remembering the taste. “Mhmmm. Yes, let’s.”

They moved past the room of pictures and into the first room—Humble Beginnings. Pictures of wide mountain ranges and fields covered the walls. Stylistic portraits of yak, horses, goats, and sheep were hung around the walls, and as they walked around they were able to read the plaques. Kuroo made a shocked noise of pleasure. “Yak cheese! Tsukki, did you read? Yak cheese! I never would have thought.”

Tsukishima came to stand beside him, reading the plaque he was standing over. _The first butter was probably made by accident sometime during the Neolithic age, some of humans first Stone Age ancestors. The first animals to submit to herding and milking were yak, horses, sheep, and goats; and, once the milk had been extracted from the animals, it would be placed in a pack or animal skin and slung over saddles as the herders or travelers moved about during the day. As they walked, the milk sloshed and fermented, and when the nomad went to drink his milk he found instead the first makings of butter._

Tsukishima frowned, looking up at the picture of the giant, furry yak. Kuroo was pleased, excited at the thought of milking herding animals and shaking milk around in a sack. “Isn’t that _cool_?”

He squinted at the plaque, frowning. “The Neolithic? That’s like seven thousand years ago.”

“Butter is timeless.”

Tsukishima laughed, once, in surprise. “Right, sure.” They moved on, reading about how butter probably changed the early eating habits of people.

Kuroo had the smallest of butter knowledge that he wanted to tell Tsukishima early on incase it was in the museum. “Did you know,” he began, “that the Greeks and Romans declared butter itself a _savagery_ and refused to eat or use it in their lives. They didn’t have the terrain to keep those big grazing animals, so they had goats and sheep and stuff—but they needed the milk to drink and use in their baths. There usually wasn’t enough left over for butter after they made their cheeses.”

Tsukishima said, “I mean that makes sense. Grecians don’t use butter much, their preferred culinary fat is olive oil, right?”

“Yeah, they’ve got olive trees _out the ass_.”

Tsukishima laughed, glancing at a quote on the wall in cast iron letters: _This is the secret name of Butter, “Tongue of the gods,” “Naval of immortality.” We will proclaim the name of Butter._ He said, “That’s odd…”

Kuroo told him, trying to keep his voice slower as he became more excited, “Well, you know, butter making was considered _magic_ basically. No one could figure out why this white, creamy _liquid_ could turn into this, this”—he flapped his hands—“this amazing ball of liquid gold.”

Tsukishima laughed at him, with him. “Oh my god.”

“It’s true.”

They learned about the wildly magical habits of the Celtic and Irish peoples, about how they believed in “butter luck” and if your churning didn’t turn out on a particular day it was believed that a neighbor or local witch stole your butter luck and retaliation was necessary. They would construct tiny rabbits from sticks, wool, skin, fingernails, and human hair—milk hares they were called—and send them off to a neighboring dairy to drink of the neighbor’s milk and cream from their cold houses, then bring them back and vomit the stolen cream into the thief’s own pails.

They learned about The Butter Tower—a tower that was built onto Notre Dame in Paris in 1506, rumored to have been paid for by the alms of denizens who wanted permission to use butter during Fast Days. “Six deniers a day for a tiny pat of butter!” Kuroo had exclaimed, not exactly sure what a _denier_ was, but even if it was just a dollar or even a half dollar it would still be expensive since Fast Days were over half the year for extremely devout Christians that would go to Notre Dame back in the sixteenth century. Definitely more money than he would spend on a tiny plop of butter.

When he said as much Tsukishima made a disbelieving noise, a snort of derision. “Pah—you’d pay fifty dollars for butter if it was your only portion of the day.”

Kuroo pouted, looking away, thinking _no I wouldn’t._

“Yes,” Tsukishima said, reading his face. “Yes, you would.”

Much of the history of butter involved the various ways of fermenting cream from the milk, the different pieces of technology that, each time, revolutionized the process. Up until the nineteenth century butter making was done all by hand, until the industrious men of the day made an automatic churn—thus removing the art of butter making from the hands of women who had done it for centuries and making it an automated process that would earn them more money.

“Men.” Kuroo scoffed. “Always after money.”

Tsukishima shook his head but Kuroo didn’t find out if he meant the shake for his comment or the way men destroyed everything lovely that women worked hard for, because at that moment they stepped into the last room and Kuroo gasped so loudly it hurt his throat.

Churns. Old fashioned butter churns. Mini modern churns. Wooden butter blocks that would press butter into consistent yellow bricks or balls. A large cooler in the corner that held bottles of—cream? Kuroo wandered over, lost in the majesty of the room, and a woman waved him over to her podium.

“Hello,” she said, too chipper, strange in this dim cool place. “You want to try your hand at butter making?”

Tsukishima groaned softly behind him. “Oh no.”

“Absolutely!” Kuroo said, too loud.

The woman blinked at him, vapid smile easing onto her face, hew own enthusiasm waning in the face of his. “We have cream from all over the world for you to pick from. It’s fifteen dollars for each pint.”

Kuroo was already fumbling out his wallet when Tsukishima cut in, “Fifteen?” He sounded aghast with the idea that someone would ever pay so much for _cream._ Clearly no one else thought it was worth it, either, because only a small number of bottles were actually open with any cream missing.

“I’ll do it,” Kuroo was saying, pulling out several bills, then turning to Tsukishima. “You got change?” He held out a bill and Tsukishima grumbled, reaching for his own wallet.

As soon as he passed the folded over wad of bills to the woman he moved to the cooler, inching his way left and right, reading the labels: _Cow Cream—Wisconsin, USA; Camel Cream—Saudi Arabia; Horse Cream—Northern China; Domestic Yak—Mongolia;_ and many more: _water buffalo, donkey, sheep, zebu, reindeer, giraffe,_ and various types of goats. He struggled for far too long to pick one, then finally called Tsukishima over. “What do you think? I’m thinking reindeer, yak, or camel?”

Tsukishima shifted, looking unnerved as he read the names of where the other cream came from. “Uhm…” he hesitated, knowing that he was going to have to eat whatever butter Kuroo would manage to churn. “Yak?”

“Why?”

He looked nervous, glancing away towards the churns. “Cause …”

“It’s like a cow?” Kuroo grinned, then laughed when Tsukishima blushed with the truth of it. He thought for a bit longer, because he knew that all these animals had different fat contents would make different creams. He thought he should go for a long grazing animal, like yak or reindeer, since they would have more fat. He knew for a fact that camels and giraffes didn’t have a lot of fat in their milk—a product from his many hours of drunken nights flipping back and forth between watching _Food Network_ and _Discovery Channel_.

“Reindeer it is!” he declared, taking the bottle from the cooler and handing it to the woman where she measured out a whole pint for him. He held it close to his chest as he wandered the churners, reading directions and deciding which he would like most. Mostly what he thought was that he wanted to buy these churners and test _each one_ just so he can feel the tactile differences and if they had any effect on the texture or taste of the finished butter. Finally, he went for the basic hand churn, opting for minimalistic, modern simplicity.

“How do you do this?” Tsukishima asked, glancing at the instructions but looking at Kuroo instead.

Kuroo poured his cream in the churn and closed the lid. He pointed to the handle. “Turn this.”

Tsukishima raised his eyebrows. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

So he did—turning the crank. A paddle in the middle went round and round, agitating the cream until the fat molecules destabilized and reformed themselves so that air was allowed to incorporate and it began to form up into whipped cream. It took several long minutes, and Tsukishima was beginning to look bored.

Kuroo grinned at him. “If you’re bored _now_ just wait.”

“Mhm?”

“It’s gonna take forever to break down the phospholipid membrane.”

Tsukishima squinted at him, uncomprehending.

“We have to break down all these molecules and after they’re all broken and just kinda die and give up. Then the fat just _falls off_ the liquid and we have butter!”

“Okay?”

Kuroo smiled. “It can take like twenty minutes.”

Tsukishima inhaled slowly in through his nose. Sighed in a rush. Then said, “I’ll just go back to the dinosaurs till you’re ready then?”

“Oh, go to the gift shop,” Kuroo suggested. “They’ve got books and clothes and shit.”

Tsukishima shook his head. “Why would I want books or clothes?”

“Maybe they’ve got a coffee table book about dinosaurs.”

“I’m sure they do.” Tsukishima laughed.

Kuroo stopped his churning for a moment to pull his wallet out and get out his debit card, holding it out. “Buy it for me.”

Tsukishima didn’t hesitate to take the card but asked, “Don’t you mean for me?”

Kuroo grinned. “No, I want to put it on _my_ coffee table so I can read it and learn about dinosaurs.”

A slow smile spread on Tsukishima’s face and he nodded, slipping the card into his pocket. “Will do. Find me when you’re done.”

Kuroo spent the next ten minutes churning, then switched hands and spent another ten churning. He watched the cream fluff up, look pretty, form stiff peaks, break down into a strange bubbly mess, and finally _finally_ began to get watery all over again. Buttermilk pooled in the bottom of the churn, along with gross looking globs of thousands of tiny fat droplets that hung suspended in the creamy liquid.

And then.

Like magic.

One churn it was globs of tiny golden beads, the next it was a chunk, and the next it was a large amorphous ball rolling around. He shrieked in excitement and held up the churn. The girl at the counter looked up from her phone and nodded at him.

“Do you have cheesecloth?” He asked, looking around. “Or a place to wash it?”

She blinked, confused. “No? Wash?”

“Yeah you have to wash it,” he explained.

“No, I’ve just got some plastic wrap for you.”

He echoed angrily, “Plastic wrap? I need to wash it and get the buttermilk out of it.” She only stared at him, so he grudgingly accepted the wrap and sealed his softball sized lump of butter. He'd have to go home or to the restaurant as soon to rinse it or the leftover buttermilk would sour the butter. But it was nice and soft, a glorious golden yellow—and it smelled sharper than cows butter. Headier. He wanted to taste it.

So he clutched his prize and made his way towards the gift shop. Even though he was vaguely aware of where it was it still took him ten minutes to get across the museum campus and when he finally found it, his phone buzzed with a text alert. It was from his bank: _Transaction of 31.89 was received._

So Tsukishima was done, that's good. Just as he poked his head in to look around he saw him coming out, and waited until they were close. He held up his prize, smiling. “What did you get?”

“Dinosaur book, like you asked. Is that your butter?”

“Yes! And we're close to the restaurant, I need to go wash it.”

Tsukishima twisted the large plastic museum gift bag on his finger, looking confused. “Wash it?”

“Get all the buttermilk out and set it with cold water before we put it in the cooler.” They walked out of the museum and Kuroo was shocked to find that the sun was already down. People left the building in droves as the museum inched closer and closer to closing time. They had just barely managed to see both exhibits. “We can walk through the park to the restaurant.”

Tsukishima looked at his watch. “It’s quite late,” he said. “Aren’t you hungry?”

Kuroo chuckled, saying simply, “Tsukki, I thought you were smarter than this. If we go to the restaurant I can make dinner.”

“Working even on your off day…” Tsukishima shook his head, smiling. “Such commitment.”

They walked through Central Park towards the restaurant, which was only a few blocks away. The trees loomed, leaves just beginning to turn orange and yellow as summer fully faded away and autumn loomed on the horizon. Every now and then Tsukishima would point out a box, and Kuroo was pleased to see that they were one of Semi’s bee hives. It took about half an hour to reach the restaurant by foot and by the time they stepped into the dim, fresh smelling kitchen Kuroo’s stomach was rumbling.

But before he could do anything at all he had to wash this damn butter! He pulled a piece of cheesecloth from the pantry and ran to the sink, grabbing bowls and ice and running the cold water. Tsukishima came to watch as Kuroo dumped his hands in the ice water, squeezing and kneading the butter. It squished through his fingers; he both hated and loved the feeling. Like wet, slick Play-Doh. Tsukishima’s face showed just what he thought of the process.

“Gross.”

Kuroo laughed, raising his hands from the ice cold bowl, fingers tingling, showing him the shiny wet ball of butter. “Touch it.”

“No, thank you.”

Kuroo grinned and held it out to him, smile spreading wider as Tsukishima frowned between the ball and him, then finally relented and poked it. His face shifted into disgust and he wiped his finger on Kuroo’s shirt.

“It’s so greasy.”

“It’s _butter_.” Kuroo laughed, dumping the creamy ice water and refilling it. This involved holding the butter, the bowl, the ice, and turning the knob on the sink. Tsukishima made no move to help even as Kuroo struggled and splashed water on his shirt, nearly dropping his butter in the sink. By the time he’d refilled the bowl and was kneading the butter under the water Tsukishima was practically cackling at him.

“You could have helped.”

“No, I really couldn’t,” Tsukishima said with a laugh.

Kuroo kicked at him playfully, and he stepped away with another breathy laugh. “Go look through the pantry and figure out what you want for dinner,” Kuroo suggested. “Something with butter.”

Tsukishima waved his hand, walking away towards the storage area, still cackling, the sound echoing off the stainless steel equipment.


	23. steamer

Sugawara walked along the street, yawning, shivering underneath his toboggan. He loved baking, but sometimes wished that he didn’t have to go in at two in the morning, especially in when it was so cold. He was even going in _early_ today, to experiment with new things.

The coffee places weren’t even open at this hour! He groaned aloud, rubbing his hands and breathing into them to warm them. He stomped into the alley, taking out his keys and opening the backdoor to _je sais pas,_ stepping in the kitchen and sighing happily at the warm air that enfolded him.

Another sigh accompanied his and he turned, then froze like a deer in headlights.

A tall, blonde man was there—the one Kuroo had brought to the restaurant a long time ago—fingers curled in Kuroo’s black hair, holding him against his crotch. Kuroo was making … noises. Pleasurable noises. His own hands were wrapped around the man’s thighs, holding him close even as his head moved in a very specific way.

Suga stared, wide eyed, and caught the attention of the blonde man, whose eyes tightened in a smile that didn’t reach his gasping mouth. Dirty dishes, remnants of a long ago eaten dinner, and large books littered the counter behind them, open to recipes and pictures of—what looked like—dinosaurs? What the _hell_.

He stepped sideways, the man’s eyes following him, until Suga vanished into the hallway. He scurried into the pastry shop and ducked behind one of the mixers, hands pressed to his mouth. “Oh my god,” he muttered. “Oh my god, oh my _god, oh my god.”_ He scrambled in the pockets of his coat, dropping his phone once before he managed to dial Daichi’s number.

After a few rings, Daichi’s voice came through, “Mhm—what is—are you hurt? What’s happened?” His voice was slurred with sleep, and Suga heard their dog Logan moving around on the bed after being awoken by the ringing of the phone.

“No! Daichi, listen, _oh my god,_ you won’t believe!” Suga whispered into the phone, “I walked in on my boss.”

Daichi hummed softly, sheets rustling as he turned over. “Okay? He works there…”

“No!” Suga hissed, giggling. “ _In flagrante delicto._ ”

Daichi didn’t answer him, only made a little noise in his throat.

“Did you hear me?”

Daichi murmured, but his voice was too soft to make anything out over the phone.

“Oh, psh,” Suga huffed. “He’s having _sex_!”

“…why were you watching?”

Suga groaned. “I didn’t! I just walked in—I left as quick as I could but I’m still in the building.” He was quiet a moment while Daichi laughed in his ear. “Oh god I can still hear them.” He clamped his hand over his other ear and ducked his head. “How the hell do I start making bread now?”

Daichi chuckled. “Can you get to all your ingredients?”

“Well, yeah, Yaku leaves them in here for me sometimes—thank goodness he did it this time.”

“Then,” he laughed again, “I suggest you put on headphones.” And he hung up.

Suga stared at the dead phone line then scoffed. “You were not helpful.” He sat on the floor for several minutes then stood and pulled off his jacket. After thinking over his options he did pull out his headphones, set aside his stuff in the corner since he didn’t want to leave the safety of the pastry shop, and set to his bread making, hoping and praying that by the time he left several hours later that they would be gone, with no sign to show that they’d ever been there.

 

* * *

 

Kuroo heard the back door of the restaurant open and looked up from butchering his carcass and saw Bokuto holding the door open with his foot as he dipped a spoon into a can. Kuroo squinted— _a can_?

He dropped his knife, ripped off his gloves, and stalked over. As he got closer he saw that Bokuto had dark bruises under his eyes, his hair was rumpled and messy (not at all it’s usual spiked style), and his clothes wrinkled. As he dipped his spoon in the can again Kuroo snatched it from his hand, leaned out the door, and flung it down the alley where it banged off the brick and toppled with a clang into the dumpster.

Bokuto watched the falsely orange sauce ooze down the brick. “….My spaghetti o’s…”

Kuroo grabbed his collar and jerked him inside. “Why are you eating that crap? For breakfast!? You’re a chef, for God’s sake!”

“That was my spoon, too.”

Plopping him on a stool, Kuroo pointed a reprimanding finger at him. “Don’t move.” He turned away, flipping on burners and collecting a pan and ingredients from the cooler. Bokuto hadn’t moved, but instead sat slumped on the stool looking pathetic and depressed. Kuroo sighed, dumping diced potatoes, sausage, onions, and peppers into a pan. He had sent Tsukishima home several hours ago so he would have time to go to the market—and had run into a feisty little butcher who had sold him on a _whole side_ of beef. He knew how to butcher meat, but it’d been _so long_ since he’d done it he was forgetting where exactly where his knife was supposed to go. It was good that he was taking a break to help Bokuto—maybe he’d go back and find that spunky butcher and ask him for advice before everyone else showed up. He’d watched the little man butcher pieces of meat like it was second nature to him, so fast and sure his hands looked like they were magic.

“What’s up with you?”

Bokuto mumbled something, and Kuroo glanced at him. “Come again? Speak up.”

“Keiji won’t talk to me.”

Kuroo sighed, flipping the food in the pan then dumping beaten eggs into it. “He’s still in the hospital?” Bokuto nodded, so Kuroo said, “Well, don’t worry. He’ll be okay.” He didn’t know that. Of course he didn’t, but he wasn’t going to _tell_ Bokuto that.

Bokuto hummed a bit, leaning on the counter, sighing. “Where is everyone else?”

Kuroo glanced at the clock. “It’s not even eight yet.”

Bokuto blinked in confusion. “Is it really?”

Kuroo paused in his cooking, turning fully to look to him. He leaned closer and noticed that Bokuto was still wearing the same clothes he wore the other night when he’d had to rush to the hospital. The day old smell of clothes that had sat in their own sweat was clinging to him, along with something sharper and more distinct. He asked, “When did you go home last? Are you _drunk_?”

Bokuto snorted, dropping his head onto his arms. “No.”

But Kuroo could smell the whiskey on his breath. He might not _be drunk currently_ but he _had been_ sometime in the last few hours.

Kuroo rolled his eyes, angry, but unable to really do anything about it now. Instead he went back to his pan, stirring a moment, then dumping everything onto a bowl and pushing it towards Bokuto. He raised his head, sniffing the air like a puppy, and pulled the food towards him, picking through it with his fingers, sucking down bits of sausage. It bothered Kuroo again just how much Bokuto had slumped. His quality of his actual cooking hadn’t diminished, but everything else had. He needed to get Bokuto out of this slump, to realize that no matter _what_ was happening he needed to keep his head in his job. He needed Bokuto to not flake out on him once he had more responsibility… if he still gave him that position. Unfortunately, Bokuto really was the _best_ choice. Yamamoto was good, of course, but he didn’t quite have the … astringency and _oomph_ of Bokuto’s food. Something was missing—and Kuroo couldn’t figure it out. Yamamoto didn’t want to do it, anyway. Kuroo had mentioned it, and Yamamoto had told him flat out: _nah, I’m happy doing what I’m doing_.

Fukunaga only wanted to work the fish station. Inuoka didn’t trust himself and his talents, he was too inexperienced anyway. Same with Yuuki. They would both be moved up in the hierarchy to get more experience for both of them. Someday, maybe, they’d be ready. But Kuroo needed someone _now_. Bokuto was the only one with the experience, the talent, and the drive to do it. If only he could get his emotions in check.

“Good lord,” Kuroo said, flatly, pushing a cup with spoons over to him. “You animal.”

Bokuto made a pained face and said with a despondent, longing tone, “Keiji called me that once.”

Kuroo leaned his hip against the counter, watching Bokuto eat. “Is he any better?”

Bokuto didn’t answer immediately. Too busy dipping his spoon into the hastily made dish and shoveling it into his face. “He’s awake. He’s not happy. He hates me.”

“Oh, come on…” Kuroo prodded gently. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

“No, it is,” Bokuto said with a pained certainty. “He said that specifically.” He ducked his head again, still eating, and Kuroo put his finger on the plate and inched it away from him, a silent reminder to _slow down_.

“You know how people get in hospital,” Kuroo said gently. “He’s just stressed. He’ll come around. You two are stupid for each other from what I can tell.”

Bokuto looked up at him, the crease between his eyebrows was pinched. “I’m just plain ol’ stupid, I think.”

“Bo.” Kuroo sighed, tapping his fingers on the table. “Don’t do that. Come on. Look, finish your breakfast. Go sleep somewhere. I don’t care where. I’ll wake you up for lunch and we’ll have a good service and you’ll feel alright when it’s all over. A day of production will be good for you.”

Bokuto dipped around in his bowl, chin on his arm, still unhappy. But after a moment he said, “So…. the flour’s comfortable?”

“Practically a Sleep Number.”

 

* * *

 

Just before lunch Hinata came to the kitchen, a strange, curious expression on his face. “Chef?” he called into the kitchen. “There’s someone at the door for you.”

Kuroo looked up, setting aside his notebook where he was scribbling ideas for new dishes. “Who?”

“I dunno,” Hinata said. “Some… dude?”

Kuroo rolled his eyes at that _very_ helpful response. “Thanks. I’m coming.” He followed Hinata into the dining room and saw a tall, lumpy man standing near the entrance to the front door. “Can I help you?”

The man smiled, but somehow it wasn’t pleasant. “You the guy?”

Kuroo blinked, feeling the smile on his face slide into vacancy. “I assume so, since you’re standing in my restaurant.”

The man made a noise that Kuroo couldn’t interpret and pointed out the window to what Kuroo assumed was his truck. “I got equipment you ordered.”

Beside him, Kenma made a face. “What more equipment do you need?”

Kuroo waved him off, his phone call from earlier in the morning coming back to him. “Oh? Do you take credit cards?”

The man nodded. “Yeah, anything you can pay me with.” They walked out into the sidewalk and the man opened the back of his truck to show the myriad of wooden barrels inside. “They’re all pretty much the same, just different sizes.”

Kuroo beamed, hopping into the trailer and stepping carefully around the churners. It smelled of old things in here. Things of another world. He poked through them, testing the plungers, inspecting the wood. And, ten minutes later, he paid the man a stupid amount of money—too much, antique or no—and carried his prize into the kitchen.

Kenma and Hinata and half the waitstaff followed him, curious as to what this giant thing was that he carried. He paused in the middle of the room, it was too hot in here to make butter, both for the product and for himself. So he lugged the wooden butter churn into the pastry shop.

Yaku followed on his heels, wary of anyone in his shop without his knowledge or approval. It didn’t matter that technically Kuroo owned the entire building, this was Yaku’s domain and everyone knew it and must bow to his will. “Kuroo, seriously?”

Kuroo set the plunger churn on the floor and backed out, heading to the cooler. “Yeah, what’s wrong with it?”

Yaku followed him closely, scowling. “Just because you went to that museum doesn’t mean you can just make butter with that.”

“It’s easy!”

“I know it is but—” He scoffed as they entered the walk in and he waved a hand at the blocks of perfectly churned and chilled butter. “We _have_ butter!”

Kuroo plucked cream from the shelf and shook it in Yaku’s face. “Not _fresh_ butter.”

Yaku huffed and followed him out. “The freshness of the butter is based on the freshness of the cream!”

Kuroo stopped in his tracks, eyes wide. Yaku squinted at him and poked him in the arm when Kuroo was still for far too long. “Kuroo are you—” He yelped as Kuroo came to life again and shoved the bottle of cream into his arms.

“I gotta call Ushiwaka! I gotta go.” He fluttered about, excitably prancing towards his office, until Kai grabbed at his shirt and pulled him back.

“ _N’avons le service ce soir._ ”

Kuroo gave him his best _please_ look. “ _Ne prendra pas longtemps…_ ” Kai clenched his hand tighter around his shirt and Kuroo huffed in desperation. “ _S’il te plaît, mon frére, c’est un petit voyage!_ ”

“ _Ce n’est pas! C’est deux heures au moins._ ”

Kuroo groaned, looking defeated. “…Fine… I’ll stay.”

Bokuto frowned at him, having come up only recently from his nap in the basement. He looked only slightly better, the bruises under his eyes were darker, but his eyes weren’t as vacant as they had been this morning. “You can’t abandon us during service.”

“You guys are _fine_ —”

Fukunaga said from the corner, “We need our leader.”

Kuroo shrugged off Kai’s hand, pulling his coat straight again. “I’ll just go down to the market, then. Find some fresh cream—or as close as I can find.”

Yaku rolled his eyes. “Well remove that eyesore from my kitchen.”

“Where else will I put it?” Kuroo asked.

“I’ll put it in the trash if you don’t.”

“It’s an antique!”

Yaku only stared at him until Kuroo snorted in frustration and went to relocate his butter churn, finding a safe place to store it away from the rest of the destructive staff. After he’d hidden it safely in his office, he came back out and glanced around, frowning when he found Bokuto was missing. “Tora,” he asked when he moved closer to the man, “where’s Bo? I need him to work grill with Kai.”

Yamamoto glanced towards the backdoor and Kuroo swore aloud.

“Damn him,” he said, more or less to himself. “I thought he’d gotten the better of that filthy habit.”

Yamamoto shrugged. “I think he’s tried… but he’s not got a lot of self-control.”

Kuroo wanted to snap _yes he does_ but pressed his mouth into a thin, tight line. Bokuto _had_ self control. Especially when he set his mind to something. Why was this one thing so hard for him? Kuroo didn’t smoke, he didn’t understand, but he also knew that his friend was under more stress than usual, right now. He supposed he could let it slide, but really, he wanted to go out there and drag him back inside to work.

 

* * *

 

The water was hot. Hot, hot. _Melt my skin_ , Akaashi thought, then flinched when a hand reached in and turned the shower off.

“Done? You’ve been in there a long time.” The nurse said, not unkindly, but not sweetly. She was very firm in her care of him. She sat with him for eight hours a day until night time when a different, more ornery nurse came and watched him while he tossed and turned all night.

Akaashi wrapped his arms around himself, leaning against the plastic wall, his head ringing with a high, tinny pitch. He was tanking, again. His blood pressure had been better since he’d been on the _tubes._ But now, having escaped IV’s, catheters, and the tube up his nose, and standing in a dizzyingly hot shower for the first time in days, he was spinning madly downward.

“Come on,” the nurse said, opening the curtain more—though it had never been fully closed—she had been watching him to make sure he didn’t hurt himself or fall or… anything else. She reached in and took his hands, helping him step out of the shower. She wrapped a towel around him and he clutched at it, shivering and naked and vulnerable.

The mirror was only partially fogged. He avoided it, staring at the ceiling or the opposite wall while she helped him towel off and dress in papery hospital clothes which were not warm at all. He missed his sweaters. They were warm. And soft. They hid the bruises that formed on his skin. Hid all the parts of himself that he despised.

IV’s were reinserted, catheter put in place. He hated it. Not only did he feel exposed—which was a strange thing for a model, he thought—but he hurt all over. His bones ached. His skin tingled. The throb of his head felt like it was pushing his brain out of the cut on his forehead. The nasogastric tube was the worst, though. He hadn’t even known the back of his nose could _hurt_. Tears sprang to his eyes when the nurse inserted the thin, long hose through his nose, and he choked (“Just swallow, it’ll make it easier. I know it’s strange.”) as she pushed it down his throat to his stomach. The tape on his cheek that held it in place pinched and pulled his skin and he wanted to rip it off, but worried about peeling skin.

The liquid that pushed down the tube was even stranger, and the sensation of fullness after several hours made him nauseated. When he told the nurses, asking to have it taken out, or even less of the liquid lunch (he hadn’t eaten _lunch_ in years) so he didn’t feel so heavy inside—they simply gave him anti-nausea medication and told him that he just had to get through two hundred and fifty milliliters of water then he’d be done.

Akaashi cried. He thought this was cruel and unusual punishment. He was an adult! He shouldn’t be here. But he could never get up the courage to actually say _no_ or ask to leave against medical advice. He was furious, and scared, and frustrated. He was dizzy, and full, and wanted to throw up, to go outside, to feel the sun on his face, take a walk around the block. But no—he was confined to bed, barely allowed to move, and the nurse even put her hand on his leg when he shook it too much, asking him if he was trying to burn calories.

One evening, the door opened and Mattsun stepped inside. The sight of him made Akaashi both excited and exhausted. They’d been friends for years: Mattsun had been through a lot and always confided in Akaashi, he’d never put up with Akaashi’s shit, and that always led to arguments between them since Akaashi liked his problems held close.

“Keiji!” Hanamaki said as he came in behind Mattsun, immediately coming over to the side of the bed and leaning down to hug him. “You scared the _shit_ out of me!”

Akaashi sighed, reaching up the arm that wasn’t held down with IVs and hugging him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. Makki was the one that found him sprawled in a pool of his own blood on the bathroom floor. Akaashi didn’t remember even being in the bathroom, or falling, or Makki’s panicked call of 911, and bundling him to the hospital. All this had been told to him later, third and fourth hand through nurses who Makki had told in a rushed panic. Makki pressed his palms to Akaashi’s cheeks, touched their foreheads together. Akaashi thanked some god somewhere that the nose tube had come out, and hoped that Mattsun and Makki would stay long enough that he could put off ‘dinner.’

Mattsun was on the other side of the bed, touching his shoulder. “How are you feeling?” He pulled away, sitting carefully on the bed beside him, taking his hand and stroking his fingers.

Akaashi glanced between them, out of the corner of his eye he saw the nurse in the corner trying to make herself invisible so that they would feel like they had privacy. She wouldn’t leave, though. “I’m fine,” he said softly, pretty sure that he was lying.

Mattsun raised one eyebrow at him, the shining silver bars in his brow winking in the harsh hospital light. “What’s going on with the treatments? What are they saying?” Down to business, as usual.Akaashi couldn’t look at him. He’d always been the one to scold him for the things Akaashi was doing to himself. They’d had _real_ fights over it. Mattsun screaming at him that he was ruining himself and Akaashi screaming back that it was none of his damn business.

Makki squeezed his hand gently and Akaashi lied again, “They say I’ll be okay…” He felt awful even as he said it. It wasn’t true. They knew it, too. They looked at him with pity and worry. Mattsun with a bit of frustration. They were like two angels on his shoulders, trying to keep him honest with himself, but he felt like the devil between them. He wasn’t honest, he wasn’t kind, or caring. He ignored his friends, even though they worried for him. He pushed away the only person to ever have loved him because he didn’t believe himself worthy.

“Why’d you give”—he struggled to say Bokuto’s name, it hurt too much—“ _him_ your ring?” Akaashi asked, glancing up at him even though it almost physically hurt him to do so.

Makki snorted at the mention of the ring, and Mattsun shot him a quieting look. “Just in case,” Mattsun said. “I didn’t want you to wake up alone and they wouldn’t let us back to the ICU.”

Akaashi had woken up alone, though. Middle of the night, dark room, panic rising like a black wave, trying to rip himself from the bed and unsure where he was. When several nurses came in to put him back in bed, it hadn’t helped. If anything, it only frightened him more. “But why’d you give him _that_ one?”

Makki snapped, “I don’t even know why you keep it.”

Mattsun narrowed his eyes between them. “Because it’s mine and not _yours_. I can decide what I do with it.”

“You shouldn’t even have it. When’s the last time you even saw—”

Mattsun cut Akaashi off, “Not since the day he gave it to me and I broke his heart. Thank you for bringing it up. I just wanted to do something nice for you, but I guess I won’t do it anymore.”

“I’d appreciate it,” Akaashi said, unable to keep the bite from his voice. They fell silent after this pronouncement. It had been years ago… Akaashi had trouble remembering exactly what had happened, but he remembered Mattsun breaking the heart of a young model after a year and a half, telling him no when the boy presented the silver ring to him as a marriage proposal. He still felt bad about it to this day and wore the ring as a reminder to himself … but a reminder of what he’d never said. It made Makki unreasonably jealous. He hated that Mattsun wore the ring on a daily basis and was adamant about voicing that fact. It was one of the only fights the two of them ever had, even though Makki and Mattsun were wholly devoted to each other and it shouldn’t have mattered.

“Hey,” Makki said, smiling in that way of people who smiled at hospital patients: _too kind, pitying, worrying._ “You’re feeling better, though?”

Akaashi shook his head. “Uhm…”— _no_ —“Yeah. Head still hurts.”

“I’m sure that’ll feel better once those stitches are out.” Makki smiled, patting his hand. “And once you’re out of here we’ll take you home and Bo can come and make us delicious food and you’ll feel even _better_.”

“Taka,” Mattsun whispered firmly. _Not the time_.

Akaashi tugged his hand away, pulling his hands into his lap and pressing his fingers together. “H-… He won’t be coming back.”

Mattsun didn’t so much _roll his eyes_ as throw them dramatically up towards the ceiling. “You can’t be serious. The two of you are so in love it’s disgusting.”

Akaashi flinched, ducking his head to his chest. “No, stop it. Don’t say that…”

“Oh, Keiji, come _on._ ” Makki sounded like he’d said that phrase before. “Bo is _distraught_. He’s upset. I can see you’re upset too. That means neither of you are happy. Why’d you tell him to leave? Huh? What’s wrong with you?”

Akaashi clenched his eyes shut, feeling more and more like he needed to get _out._ Out, out, out—run, run, run—go, go, go. He hated being stuck in this bed. Especially when these two were staring at him, asking him uncomfortable things, telling him frustrating things, things that he didn’t want to hear. He’d told Bokuto to leave because he shouldn’t love Akaashi. Akaashi wasn’t good enough, wasn’t _worth it_ , and Bokuto deserved someone who could love him back the way he should be loved. Akaashi didn’t think himself capable of loving or being loved in the same way that Bokuto did—all encompassing.

The nurse stood now and Mattsun turned in surprise, as if he hadn’t known she’d been there at all. “Excuse me,” she said with a professional smile. “I think it would be best if you two stepped out for a bit.”

Mattsun narrowed his eyes at her. “Beg pardon?”

Her eyes pinched with her fake smile, and Akaashi had never been more grateful. “We have to run some tests, and we need the room.” _Get out._

Akaashi stared at his hands, white knuckling the sheets. He didn’t think they really had any tests to run. Mattsun and Makki exchanged looks, had an entire silent conversation over his bed, and Akaashi hated feeling like a child amongst parents halfway to a divorce. He felt like it was his fault.

Makki leaned over and kissed Akaashi’s head. “See you soon,” he said, slipping off the bed and moving towards the edge of the room. Akaashi watched him, envious of those precious few steps.

Mattsun nodded curtly. “Get better,” he said, firmly, but with a pull of his mouth that meant he was trying to keep his emotions pressed down inside. Then he followed Makki out and the door closed. Akaashi’s breath ran out of him in a long, fast breath.

The nurse stood beside the bed, leaning over him. “Are you okay?”

He nodded, pressing his hands to his eyes. The nurse sighed softly, reaching over and putting her arm around him in a gentle hug. He didn’t want to cry. He felt sick. He managed to open his mouth before he choked, coughing and swallowing bile and _fluids_.

The nurse grabbed what was essentially a bucket and set it close but said, “Try to stay calm. It’ll be okay, just breathe.”

Akaashi curled in on himself, feeling the weight of the liquid food heavy in his stomach. He couldn’t pull his legs up, couldn’t hide in the blankets. His hands shook and he pressed them to his face, wanting to claw his eyes out so that he didn’t have to see how his body had changed. Would change. He had to get out.

The doctor’s words echoed in his head: _facility. treatment. counseling. underlying reason. Recovery._

He didn’t know what he was supposed to recover. His mind? Body? Sanity? Something else? He didn’t know if he wanted to find out. Bokuto’s face flashed in his mind, the sound of him walking out, the desperate way he’d said his name. The crack in his voice that mirrored the ones in Akaashi’s heart. He couldn’t help it, his stomach heaved, and the fluids they’d spent several hours pumping into him came rushing back up in a foul smelling, painful splash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French Translation:  
> n'avons ... soir - we have service tonight  
> Ne ... longtemps - It wont take long  
> S'il te ... voyage - Please, bro, it's a short trip  
> Ce ... moins - it is not! it's two hours or more!


	24. infusion

Kuroo was just finishing the after dinner paperwork—receipts, inventory, payroll, and other management things that he hated doing—when he saw Bokuto pass by carrying a tub of chicken carcasses. He jumped up, chasing him towards the large stock pots in the back corner. “Bo!”

Bokuto stopped, turning, and Kuroo snatched the pan from his hands. “What are you doing?”

“We’re kinda low on stock so I was going to make some.”

Kuroo scoffed. Stock making was an easy, albeit involved process. It involved browning carcasses, sweating mirepoix on the stove, then sitting beside the giant pot for hours, occasionally skimming scum and fat that floated to the top. With the size stocks they made, it took _hours_. All night. “Absolutely not,” Kuroo told him in his best _I’m the boss_ voice. He passed the pan into the arms of a passing _commis chef_ , Yuuki, who gave him a frustrated look. “Can you make stock this weekend?”

Yuuki looked at the chicken bones, his face conveying just how much he didn’t want to do it. “Yes, Chef.”

“Thank you,” Kuroo patted his shoulder, then waved him off. “Go put that up now.” Yuuki shuffled back towards the walk in and Kuroo frowned at Bokuto, assessing him. Service had brought his energy levels up but that was a dangerous thing now that it was over and he was running on several days with only four or five hours of sleep. His shoulders slumped a bit, and his body seemed to shift sideways as he watched Kuroo squinting at him. His head lolled a bit; he looked both bored and wired, his eyes casting over the kitchen, searching for something that his twitching, restless hands could do.

So in order to stop Bokuto from attempting to start any other sort of involved cleaning or cooking, Kuroo pulled him by his sleeve and sat him in his office. “Stay here.”

Bokuto blanched at him, appalled. “What?”

“Just sit. I’ve got a few things to do, then we’ll go.”

“Go?”

“Yes, go.”

So in twenty minutes, kitchen cleaned and cleared, Kuroo and Bokuto stepped out of the restaurant and into the streets. “Hungry?” Kuroo asked as they waved goodbye to Kai and Yamamoto.

Bokuto only shrugged.

Kuroo said, putting as much enthusiasm behind his voice as he could, “You like McDonalds! Want to go there? Get some tea? Some _nuggs?_ ”

But Bokuto shook his head. “No.”

Kuroo deflated and they walked several blocks in silence. Kuroo hated this side of Bokuto: this self-deprecating, downcast, sleepless, antsy man that reminded Kuroo of a blizzard. Instead of snow it was stress that blanketed every inch of Bokuto’s personality. He even seemed to forget about his nicotine habit with his hands shoved so far in his pants pockets that they were lost and he was hunched over, looking like he was weathering a disaster inside him.

Finally, Kuroo stopped and tugged on Bokuto’s sleeve. “I know a place for food.”

“I told you, I’m not hungry. I’m just gonna go home, now—”

“No,” Kuroo told him. “The city is a dangerous place for a pretty boy to walk alone, isn’t it? That goes for both of us.”

Bokuto actually laughed, the first time all night, and Kuroo waved an arm into the street to call a cab.

Later, they sat together on a bench outside _Little Italy Pizzeria_ , Kuroo’s favorite twenty four hour pizza joint. The slices were huge, the sauce was homemade, the dough hand tossed. Gourmet pizza at cheap prices at any time of day or night. Kuroo liked literally everything so he usually just asked whoever was making the pizza to make him _their_ favorite pie and he’d shovel that down.

As soon as they’d entered the shop Bokuto had lit up like a match, excited around the smell of food that wasn’t his: wood burning in the oven, crust bubbling, fresh dough fermenting. It all seemed to breathe new life into him. He peered at the myriad of toppings, practically salivating, then actually drooling, as he picked each of his toppings, which ended up being nearly every topping the place offered. Kuroo marveled at how refined his palate could be in the kitchen and how…. utterly appalling it was outside of the kitchen.

Kuroo watched with saucer eyes as Bokuto inhaled it. It was like watching an elephant suck down water. Only horrifying.

“Bro,” Kuroo said, wide eyed. “Slow. Down.”

“Hungry,” Bokuto retorted, taking a bite so big it hurt Kuroo’s mouth to even watch it. Kuroo only shook his head, turning halfway away to eat his own pizza so he wouldn’t get sick watching Bokuto.

When they were in yet another cab Kuroo slapped Bokuto’s chest. “Give the man your address.”

Bokuto was leaning back in the seat, one hand on his belly, puffing air out through his cheeks with how full he was. “Huh?”

“Your apartment.”

“Oh,” and he leaned forward, spitting out his address so quick he had to repeat it twice for the cabbie to understand. When he flopped back, groaning with how full he was, he said, “What, are you gon’ come sleep in my shitty-ass apartment now?”

Kuroo rolled his eyes. “No, I’m going to make sure you make it to _bed._ ”

“I’m not stupid, Kuroo, I know how to find my bed.”

“I’m dubious, since you haven’t seemed to have slept in two days.”

Bokuto pouted, sliding lower in the seat so that his posture was obnoxiously horrific, and rubbing his hand up and down his torso. It took over half an hour to get to Bokuto’s apartment—it was halfway across the city over the bridge into Brooklyn. Bokuto fell asleep, nodding off against the side of the door, snoring softly until Kuroo reached over and pulled him up a bit so his face wasn’t squished. Kuroo tried not to fall asleep too, but it was _so_ late. He’d been up for hours. He and Tsukishima had spent all day at the museum yesterday (two days ago? the date shift at midnight fucked with his brain more often than not), and then they’d stayed up all night. He’d spent the morning butchering and the rest of the day and night working. All he wanted to do was _sleep_.

Bokuto’s apartment was small, Kuroo thought once they got there. He was having doubts of leaving him here at all. Canned foods and boxed, sugary cereals lined the counter. He didn’t have a real pantry, stove, oven, closet, or even _bed_ —just an old camp bed that Bokuto had probably carried with him throughout his travels _._ It looked old enough. The entire place made Kuroo cringe. He knew how much Bokuto made—hell, he paid him!—and he knew he could afford better than this. But Kuroo was getting a sneaking suspicion that Bokuto didn’t care much for where he kept all his things, nor where he rested his head at night. In fact, Kuroo thought that Bokuto spent so little time in his own bed because, being the man that never sleeps, he spent his restless nights wandering the city that never sleeps.

“Alright, dude,” Kuroo said as he glanced over the counter again and saw several bottles of beer and liquor. “Get your shit.”

Bokuto was dumping his clothes out of his bag and into a pile in the corner. “What?”

Kuroo couldn’t help but squint at the pile, which was bigger than it should be. “Pack like you’re going on vacation. You’re coming home with me.”

Bokuto turned to look at him, confused. “Huh?”

“I’m not leaving you here. Pack a bag. You can even bring dirty clothes, there’s a laundromat in the lobby.”

It took several hours but by four in the morning Kuroo finally collapsed in bed. He and Bokuto had come back from Bokuto’s apartment and found Madame Cera lounging on the couch, so Kuroo knew that Tsukishima would be asleep in his bed. He’d made up the couch for Bokuto, sent down his laundry to the laundromat staff, and parked him on the couch, telling him that if he wasn’t asleep by the time Kuroo came out the next morning he wasn’t allowed to come back to the restaurant for a week. Or something like that, he was too tired to really remember.

He curled up in bed beside Tsukishima, who woke up just enough to turn over and snuggle up beside him, then wrinkled his nose and pulled away. “You smell like beer, pizza, and cigarette smoke.”

Kuroo sighed, wondering if he could get up the energy to shower. “I brought Bo home with me.”

“Mhm.” Tsukishima hummed softly, not really awake. “He okay?”

“We’ll see in the morning,” Kuroo told him, patting his chest over the blankets. “Go to sleep.” But Tsukishima was already drifting off again. Kuroo lay dozing in that half asleep, half awake place while his brain tried to comprehend real sleep again. It didn’t take long and when he finally slept, he didn’t even dream.

 

* * *

 

Sunlight streamed in through the window and Tsukishima leaned over Kuroo, poking his chest. The poke conveyed his impatience, annoyance, and frustration that he couldn’t make his coffee because he didn’t want to disturb the man on the couch. Kuroo opened his eyes, closed them, and groaned.

“Kei, what do you want?”

“I want coffee.”

Kuroo sighed, rolling over onto his belly and burying his face into the pillow. It smelled of sweat and grease from last night, and he pulled his face away in disgust. “I want to wash the bedsheets.”

Tsukishima rolled his eyes, sitting up beside him and tapping on his phone. “Coffee, first.”

Kuroo drug himself out of bed, pulling on clean pants and moving out into the small hallway that connected the bedroom to the main living area. He paused halfway down when he heard Bokuto’s voice, speaking softly. He stopped, not wanting to disturb him, and peeked around the corner.

On the couch Bokuto lay sprawled wide, one hand dangling to brush the floor and the other curved over Madame, where she sat perched on his chest. He was talking to the cat, and she purred as she listened, staring into his eyes—blue and gold locked together in the way of shared secrets. Bokuto’s voice was soft and gentle, whispering into the morning sun as it rose across the city in golden arcs and ribbons. Hearing Akaashi’s name, and a catch in Bokuto’s voice, Kuroo stepped back into the hallway, suddenly feeling like he was encroaching on something private. He tiptoed back to the bedroom and crawled back into bed, saying in a whisper, “Coffee can wait.”

“Mhm?”

“Just enjoy the quiet of the morning, Kei,” Kuroo said, closing his eyes and tugging the blankets back up over his head.

Tsukishima looked down at him. “Why’s he on the couch?”

“I didn’t trust him to not get drunk and lost in the city.”

Tsukishima frowned, thinking this over with what he knew of Bokuto. “Ah, alright. How long is he staying? Should we sleep at my place from now on?”

Kuroo shrugged, found that it was hard to do while laying down, and said instead, “I don’t know… everything’s up in the air right now.”

Tsukishima sighed, setting his phone and glasses aside and sliding back under the comforter. He curled up, closing his eyes and saying, “Just tell me when I can get coffee.”

Kuroo hummed and put his arm around him until he fell asleep. He glanced at his phone, it wasn’t even eight yet, but he needed to get to the restaurant. Inventory needed doing, he needed to order produce for the next week, and there was some cleaning he’d passed up in favor of getting Bokuto home. He had so much paperwork to do, payroll needed entering… his brain flipped back and forth between all the things he needed to do, creating a long, long list in his head.

Once Tsukishima was back in dreamland, Kuroo carefully extracted himself from him and showered, shoving his clothes from the night before deep down in the laundry basket then slipped quietly into the kitchen when he was through to make Tsukishima his coffee. He scribbled a note for Bokuto to find when he woke up and set it on the table beside him, happy to find that he’d fallen into a deep sleep.

 _Stay as long as you need,_ his note said. _As long as you show up to work before service I don’t care how long you’re gone. there’s lots of GOOD food here - eat whatever you want. call me if you need anything - K_

 

* * *

 

“Hey, Kuroo?” Oikawa said, sticking his head into the office.

Kuroo was leaning on his hand, glossy eyed and bored as he flipped through receipts and order permits. “Mhm?”

Oikawa slipped in, grinning. “There’s a very handsome man at the front asking for you.”

He glanced at the clock. “It’s noon. Restaurant doesn’t open until seven.”

“He’s not a customer,” Oikawa told him. “And he asked for the _guy with the weird pants._ ”

Kuroo looked down at his pants of the day: black pants with white and yellow aproned chickens. He had a plethora of chef pants with fun patterns, which he was now famous for. Red with black cat outlines, black with white and yellow aproned chickens, green with bleating goats. Many, many more that he’d acquired over the years. Everyone made fun of his pants but he _loved_ them and they were better than boring black, weren’t they? “Well, I guess that’s me,” he said. “Just send him back.”

Oikawa smiled, backing out of the office. Kuroo checked his phone while he waited, but Bokuto hadn’t texted. He hoped he was still sleeping, but wondered when he should call and get him to come in. He needed him for service, after all. Probably needed him in early to get some food in him if he didn’t eat at the apartment.

“Here we are,” Oikawa said, waving in a man into Kuroo’s office. Kuroo looked up and found the man as indeed as Oikawa described: _very handsome_. Messy black hair, intense dark eyes, sharp eyebrows with two long bars pierced through the left one, and a string of silver loops up his right earlobe. He was tall, broad shouldered, wearing dark clothes and carrying himself with more confidence than Kuroo had felt in his entire life.

Kuroo waved Oikawa away and showed the man a chair. “Can I help you?”

The man sat in the proffered chair, taking his hands from his coat pockets and looking at Kuroo like he was deciding whether or not to crush him under his stylish boots. “You’re Bokuto’s boss?”

Kuroo blinked, the man’s voice was deeper than he thought it would be, smoother too, like aged whiskey. “Yes? I’m Kuroo Tetsurou. How do you know Bo?”

“My name is Matsukawa, I’m friends with him and Akaashi. And I need your help.”

Kuroo blinked, sliding away his paperwork to give Matsukawa his undivided attention. “What do you mean?”

Matsukawa tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair, either nerves or frustration. “How much do you know about them?”

“They’re stupidly in love,” Kuroo said immediately. “Bo thinks about him almost every second of every day and it’s disgustingly sappy.”

Matsukawa chuckled, a soft, breathless sound. “That’s one way to put it, I suppose.” He leaned on one elbow, considering his next words, a familiar silver ring glinting on his thumb, which Kuroo squinted at. “Akaashi is much the same…”

“Didn’t sound like it, last I heard,” Kuroo said, too sharply.

Matsukawa cut those dark, intense eyes at him, a protective spark of anger lighting in them. “Don’t,” he said, voice low. Then in a kinder voice: “Akaashi’s in a bad place right now. He’s not thinking straight. When he gets help, he’ll be better. And I think Bokuto is the one that will get him there.”

Kuroo steepled his fingers, only half his vision seeing the man in front of him. The other half looked into his mind’s eye, remembering Bokuto over the past few months and how happy he’d been. How frustrated he’d been recently, how distressed. He wanted Bokuto happy again, but if he participated in a plot to reunite the pair of lovers and it _didn’t_ work out… it would probably be worse than had he never interfered.

“What exactly are you suggesting?” Kuroo asked, keeping his voice level.

Matsukawa took a long, steadying breath, composing his thoughts before he spoke. “Bokuto won’t listen to me, so I need you to convince him to go back to the hospital. I think he can convince Akaashi to go into the treatment program”—he waved a hand, indicating that it didn’t matter if Kuroo knew what exactly what Akaashi was suffering from—“and I can only imagine that it would do them _both_ some good to talk to each other again.”

“That I can’t disagree with,” Kuroo said. “Bo’s been…” He paused then shook his head, starting over: “What do you suggest, then?”

Matsukawa shrugged. “I’m not sure. I think that if you work on Bokuto and I work on Akaashi, we can force them to meet in the middle and stop acting like temper tantrum throwing children.”

Kuroo rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t call it that.”

“I would.”

“That aside… I agree,” he said. “They would both be better off with each other. Bokuto certainly would.” He tapped a finger on his chin, thinking. “He’ll be coming in later today. Maybe in the morning I can tell him to take the day off and go to the hospital.”

Matsukawa shrugged. “Make it an order instead of a suggestion?”

“We might be called a brigade, but we’re not military.”

“You know what I mean. Get him there, somehow. Akaashi’s already doing better physically. As his condition improves, I’m sure his mental state will improve. He’ll be able to think clearer and between Makki and myself I think we can convince him to see Bokuto. But …” And here he looked away, out the glass walls at Fukunaga dismembering a larger than life tuna that he’d procured from a fisher friend on the West coast. “I also believe that Akaashi will only go into the program if Bokuto asks it of him.”

Kuroo hummed in thought, pressing his nail into the flesh of a callus on his finger in a moment of stress. “And if it doesn’t work out?”

Matsukawa took several long moments to watch Fukunaga filet the fish and flip it over, then looked back at Kuroo, eyes pinched with a sad smile. “Then at least we tried. Right?”

Kuroo shook his head, sighing. He wasn’t wrong. If they tried and failed, Bo would be worse for a few months… but eventually he’d get over it, right? That’s what people did when relationships failed—took time to heal?

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll try.”

Matsukawa stood, his job done. “Thank you. It would mean a lot to me, and Akaashi, and I’m sure it would help Bokuto, too.”

Kuroo mumbled, “It’d help my kitchen productivity, too…”

Matsukawa actually laughed, shaking his head. “I can only imagine. Well, sometime maybe I’ll come and eat dinner here. It looks good. Oh”—he reached over and took a pen and a piece of paper from Kuroo’s desk and writing a series of digits in long, striking numbers. “My number. If you need anything from me, let me know.” He tore a piece of paper off (Kuroo’s eye twitched at his presumptuousness with Kuroo’s things) and handed Kuroo the pen. “Yours?”

Kuroo eyed him dubiously, trying to keep the annoyance off his face, then took his own pen from the man’s hand and wrote his number down. “Thank you,” he said, standing as well, bringing the meeting to a close. “I have things to take care of, if you wouldn’t mind.” He waved a hand, ushering Matsukawa out.

After Matsukawa left Kuroo dropped back into his chair, rubbing his eyes. Great. Yet another thing to worry about.

“Chef?” Inuoka asked from the door.

Kuroo took a breath, trying not to snap. Why did everyone suddenly want to talk to him? “What?”

“We need more bone marrow. Can you order some?”

“Already on my list…”

“Oh. Good!” Inuoka smiled, stepping out.

Kuroo sighed again, looking back at his computer and the unfinished order screen. Too much work to do. But it all had to be done. He checked his phone again, and sent a hesitant text to Bokuto: _will you be in soon?_

_on my way dude. don’t panic. your hero cometh_

Kuroo laughed, shaking his head. Bokuto was an idiot, but he was one of his best friends. Yes, if he _could_ help Bokuto be happy, he would do it, hands down, no questions asked.

 

* * *

 

After service that night, Kuroo and Bokuto shared a cab back to Kuroo’s apartment, which was empty. Tsukishima must have decided to sleep in his own bed tonight, where he would be able to get his own coffee whenever he wanted. Kuroo’s gaze roved the counter, wondering what to make for dinner, and landed on the little basket of brown eggs which was at least six eggs lighter than it had been this morning. He whipped around to look at Bokuto, who was stripping and changing into more comfortable clothes. “You ate my Ushiwaka eggs!”

Bokuto paused in pulling on gym shorts and a large red blotching scar across his thigh caught Kuroo’s eye. Another scar? To have all these scars, Bokuto was either reckless, crazy, or just plain stupid. Possibly all three at once. Kuroo didn’t have _that_ many scars. Once, the chefs at _je sais pas_ had compared scars and kitchen battle stories, and Bokuto, being the entertainer that he was, stole the show with not only the vast number and variety of scars he had littered on his hands and arms, but with wildly hilarious stories of how he’d gotten them. Kuroo hadn’t known there were even more hidden under his clothes.

“I didn’t know you named your eggs,” Bokuto said.

Kuroo groaned, kicking himself for not putting a note on them. “They were from the farm.”

“Oh? Well, dude, they were fucking _weird,”_ Bokuto said, tugging on a clean shirt. “They were red and tasted….” he waved a hand, unable to figure out the word he was looking for.

“They were pepper eggs…”

“You’re the one that said I could eat anything!” Bokuto laughed, but Kuroo could tell he felt bad about it.

“I know… my fault. Don’t worry, I can get more. How do you feel about”—he glanced in his fridge, remembered the things he had in his cabinet—“I dunno? Spaghetti? I don’t have meatballs but I’ve got some sausages.”

Bokuto made a _sounds good_ noise as he came and plopped himself at the island. “So you really don’t eat, like, shit food?”

“No, of course not.” Kuroo laughed, getting out a sauté pan and the homemade spaghetti sauce he made a few weeks ago and canned himself.

“Bro,” Bokuto chuckled, reaching for a bowl of fruit and peeling the skin of an orange with a thumbnail. “You should see the shit I eat when I’m not at work.”

“ _Spaghetti in a can?_ ” Kuroo mocked.

“And Vienna sausages. I’ve spent many a meal eating only three bags of popcorn. Potato chips and chocolate are good, too. Dinosaur chicken nuggets with Sriracha and mac n’ cheese.” He waved a piece of the orange around. “I sure as shit don’t buy _fruit_ cause I’ll never fucking eat it.”

Kuroo shook his head. “You eat like a five year old when you’re not at work. I will never understand.”

“Maybe I just sleep on your couch forever and you feed me better food? How the fuck can you afford all this stuff? I live off coupons and can barely afford groceries.”

Kuroo dropped a generous helping of salt into a pot of boiling water and added enough pasta for them both to cook while he browned sausage in a pan. “You make plenty of money. I know you do. Why do you act like you don’t?”

Bokuto took a bite of the orange like it was an apple and said with his mouth full, “If I pretend I don’t, I won’t ever spend too much and _actually_ go broke.”

Kuroo turned to him, frowning. “So you choose to live in a shitty apartment and eat awful food?”

“Well, I lived in that shitty place before I worked with you. Just never bothered to move.”

Kuroo shook his head, seasoning the meat generously. “Maybe you _should_ live here.”

Bokuto laughed, then suddenly his mood plummeted like a stone dropped in water. He was quiet while he finished his orange then said, “I practically lived with Keiji for a while there.”

Kuroo had to resist the urge to groan aloud. Not this. Bokuto would be hard to converse with all evening now. Might as well work on Matsukawa’s plan then, even though he had absolutely no idea how he’d do it. On the fly, then. Here we go:“Have you heard from him?”

“…No.”

Kuroo plucked a piece of spaghetti from the pot, tasted it. Done. “I think you should go see him.”

“I can’t,” Bokuto said sadly, laying his head down on the island and scrubbing hands through his hair. Kuroo winced at the thought that he was just pushing orange juice into his roots. “He doesn’t want me there. He said so.”

Kuroo huffed, taking the pasta and dumping it in a strainer in the sink. “So—let me ask you something. How long have you been working in kitchens?”

Bokuto looked up at him, laying his cheek on his arm. “Since I was fourteen, fifteen? So…” He had to do the math in his head. “God—damn, like, eleven years.”

Kuroo laughed. “Longer than me.”

“Shit, really?”

“Yup, by two years, at least. So, tell me, have you hurt yourself in the kitchen?”

Bokuto snorted a surprised laugh. “I’ve gotten three new scars since I’ve known you.”

Kuroo smiled—Bokuto always took pride in his scars. He took a moment to toss the noodles, sauce, and sausages together then dumped it all in a giant bowl and came to lean on the island in front of him. He passed Bokuto a fork and they shared a contented few moments in silence as they shared the midnight meal. “And have you ever gone to the hospital for an injury?”

Bokuto stabbed a sausage. “Yeah.” He stuffed it in his mouth. “Once for a concussion when someone hit me over the head with a pan and once after I got boiling water on my leg _inches_ from my dick. Dude, you don’t know fear till your dick almost gets boiled.”

Kuroo laughed, twirling spaghetti around his fork. “I’m sure I don’t know that fear. But, so…” He struggled to figure out where he was going with this, how it would help him convince Bokuto to go back to the model. “When you were there, were you scared?”

Bokuto shrugged. “I guess. My dick was fine, so—”

“Vulgar, dude. Not while I’m eating.”

“Ha! Well, then, …. I guess I was, yeah. I don’t really remember. Both of them happened when I was still in Atlanta.” He tapped his fork against the bowl. “No. I think the water one was when I was in Florida. I think it was a prank gone wrong.” Kuroo gave him a curious look, so he continued, “It was like a rite of passage? This kid who thinks he’s this badass—I don’t think they meant the water to be boiling, and they meant to just throw super hot water on me, but…” He shrugged, laughing. “I don’t remember. I sorta blocked it.”

“You’re _insane_ ,” Kuroo told him, then remembered he had been working to a point. “But just try to remember. If you were scared then, knowing you were probably going to be okay—”

“My _dick,_ dude.”

Kuroo stabbed his hand with his fork, causing Bokuto to yelp and yank his hand away, rubbing it with a pout. “Shut up, you’re making me forget where I’m going with this. My _point_ is, if _you_ were scared just imagine how scared your little model is. His entire way life is changing, probably against his will. He’s scared shitless and he thinks his life, as he knows it, is over.” Kuroo pointed at him with the utensil. “And if you think that he _really means_ that he wants you to stay away from him during what is probably the hardest time in his life, you’re a fucking idiot.”

Bokuto blinked at him, mouth opening to reply and then, under Kuroo’s well-meaning glare, closed it again and thought through his next sentence carefully. “I… I mean… I want to be there for him,” he started, hesitating, “but he… Kuroo, you didn’t see his face.”

“And have you ever said something you didn’t mean when you were upset?” He said it because he knew _damn well_ Bokuto had. Bokuto was a creature who tended to live by the heat of his emotions, wearing them not only on his sleeve but also his tongue.

Bokuto flushed red with the truth of it. “…Yes.”

“Then shut up, don’t argue with me. Take the morning off, go see him. Don’t leave until you’ve talked to him.” With that, Kuroo took a large bite, pleased with his reasoning and his ability to bring his original point full circle to solve the problem.

“Uhm…” Bokuto looked distressed. He put his fork down and stood. “Guess… that’s that, then.” He looked lost again. Kuroo felt a little bad… but he wouldn’t take it back. Bokuto needed to hear it. He turned and shuffled back to the couch, dropping onto it and pulling the blankets up, vanishing under them so that only his spiky hair was visible.

Kuroo finished his spaghetti and sausage, rinsed the plate, and went to his own bed. Since he’d been dating Tsukishima, he’d only slept alone a small handful of times, and he realized again how much he disliked it. He wondered if he could sneak over and crawl in bed with him without Tsukishima spraying him with the bear mace he kept in his bedside table for intruders. Probably best not to risk it.


	25. parboil

Bokuto stood outside the room ( _407)_ , his hands clenching and unclenching together. He was nervous. What if Mattsun had been wrong in his earlier text? What if Akaashi hadn't really agreed to speak with him?

He stepped back as a nurse bustled down the hall with a gurney filled with supplies that looked and smelled like bunches of covered platters of hospital food. It was just past breakfast time and Bokuto wondered if Akaashi had eaten enough—then the thought occurred to him that he would _have_ to eat because of the hospital staff, and he wondered how Akaashi was handling that prospect.

He raised a hand to knock then startled and stepped back as the door was opened and a nurse stepped out. “Oh,” she said. “Sorry, love.” She stepped aside, leaving the door open for him as she walked down the hall.

Bokuto hovered outside the door, his feet frozen when he saw Akaashi sitting up in the bed. Even from the doorway he could see the flush of color under his skin—how had he not realized just _how_ pale Akaashi had been before? He took a single step inside. “Hey.”

Akaashi looked at him, then made a distressed noise and ducked his head, pulling the blanket up to cover his face. The nurse patted his shoulder and said softly, “It’s okay, it’s not as bad as you think.”

Bokuto hesitated again, unsure if he was actually invited inside or not. Akaashi wouldn’t lift his face, but Bokuto had seen the tube that snaked across his cheek and into his nose. He moved to stand beside the bed and sat carefully on the edge of a chair, pressing his hand to his knee to stop it shaking. He wanted to reach over and take Akaashi’s hand, tell him it would all be okay, but he didn’t. He couldn’t possibly know or promise that, anyway.

“What… is that?” he asked instead, motioning to the tube.

The nurse, hand still on Akaashi’s shoulder, waited several seconds, trying to get Akaashi to speak, and when he refused she said, “It’s called a _nasogastric tube_. It’s used to help us get lots of good vitamins and nutrients into him.”

Bokuto frowned. He’d never heard of this before. Akaashi only buried himself deeper in his blankets. “Does it hurt?”

Akaashi heaved a long, slow breath. Bokuto could see him trying to prepare himself, and so he waited patiently until Akaashi reappeared, but he still wouldn’t look at Bokuto. His eyes were red and watery but Bokuto didn’t think he’d been crying, his eyes weren’t puffy like they were when he’d been crying. “A bit, when they put it in or take it out. Other than that… no, not really. It’s hard to forget it’s there, though.” He raised a hand and pressed it to his stomach, grimacing.

The nurse patted his shoulder and stepped back, sitting on a chair and picking up her paperwork, effectively telling them that she was leaving them as alone as she could, even going so far as to put blue corded headphones into her ears. Bokuto didn’t think that was allowed, but he liked the feeling of faux privacy she was attempting to give them. Akaashi glanced at her and sighed. “I’m not allowed to be alone,” he explained.

Bokuto eyed the nurse, but she was focused on her paperwork. “At all?”

“I can’t go to the bathroom without leaving the door open,” Akaashi told him, picking at the skin around his nails. Bokuto saw that they were bloodied now and wanted to reach forward and take his hands to stop him but didn’t know if Akaashi would be upset with him touching him. “They stand outside the shower curtain when I’m allowed to shower. Sometimes I get to walk down the hall and back, but they’re right beside me the whole way.” His voice was low and soft, hollow with how fed up he was with this treatment. Clearly he hated it; hell, Bokuto would hate it too, but one or both of them realized that it was necessary, even if Akaashi despised it. “I get these food pouches three times a day, so it comes in and out. Takes a few hours… and it hurts. I didn’t know the back of my nose could hurt.”

Bokuto rubbed a finger under his own nose, remembering the burn from his days of drug use and wondered if it was similar but didn’t think it was the time to ask. “Pouches?”

Akaashi sighed, pointing to a sack attached to his tube. “Nutrient dense goop.” He saw Bokuto’s face and laughed a high, soft laugh. “It’s exactly as nice as it sounds. I mean, I don’t know, I can’t taste it, but it feels… weird. Really cold.” He rubbed his stomach again. “But I guess you aren’t here to talk about that.”

“We can talk about whatever you want to talk about…”

Akaashi gave him an odd look. “Mattsun said you wanted to talk about… y’know, us.”

“Are we an _us_?”

“I don’t know, Bokuto.” He closed his eyes, lowering his head. “I—It doesn’t seem fair to ask you to stay. Not after what I… said. How I…”

Bokuto was already shaking his head. “That’s not important. You’re… stressed. I get that this is”—he stopped himself, biting his lip in thought—“difficult for you.”

“To put it lightly.”

“But,” Bokuto went on, “that just makes me want to be here for you even more. No matter what we are.”

Akaashi rubbed his eyes with his fingertips. “But, Bokuto, I don’t want you here all the time. I don’t… like you being here, seeing me like this.”

Bokuto slumped, then tried to overcorrect his posture before Akaashi saw how much it upset him. He knew that Akaashi didn’t like not being _in control_. He hadn’t known just how particular Akaashi had been until now. He controlled every moment of his life, usually, every minute if he could. Now all that was taken from him he was probably falling apart inside. “You know I don’t care about that.”

“I do.”

Bokuto sighed, drumming his thumbs on his legs. “Well… I’m sorry you feel that way. But I’d really rather not just … leave you alone. I want to be here for you. Support you. I want to help you get better.”

The nurse glanced up, looking between them a moment. They both turned to stare at her and she smiled sweetly, nodding and saying over whatever she was listening to, “Okay?” Akaashi gave her an _okay_ hand sign back and she nodded, ducking her head to her work again.

“I do mean it,” Bokuto said. “I want to be here to help you.”

Akaashi sighed, pressing his palms to his face. “Bokuto, you can’t _help me_. I don’t even know if I can be _helped_.” His voice was strained, pinched tight and pained. “The doctor told me when I first came in that if I hadn’t come in he believed that I would be dead in a year and”—his voice caught in his chest and he looked up at Bokuto, real tears in his eyes —“and my _first thought_ was: _oh, no way. It’s not that bad. I’ve got it under control better than that. He’s wrong._ ” He shook his head, barking out a sharp, painful laugh. “But they showed me the charts. The numbers. God. I’ve got so much wrong up with me, inside and out—”

“Keiji…”

“No, you really have no idea. I can’t even _explain_ …” He dropped his head again, sucking in a breath and shuddering visibly. “If I … don’t make it, in the long run, I don’t want you to have to _deal_ with that.”

Now Bokuto did reach over, touching his hand and pulling it from his face. “You’re not a burden to me,” he said gently. Akaashi didn’t say anything, only pressed the fingers of his free hand to his eyes until his knuckles were white. “I won’t go,” Bokuto said in a firm whisper, squeezing his hand. “I love you too much to do that. You get that? After… after everything… I can’t just go. You’re stuck with me. Let me be with you.”

Akaashi was shaking his head, teeth sinking hard into his lip. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” he breathed out, voice just this side of a whine. Bokuto didn’t know what to say so he just squeezed Akaashi’s hand again. “Tell me about the restaurant.”

Bokuto blinked, thrown off for a moment. “What do you want to know?”

Akaashi shrugged. “Anything.”

“Well, Kuroo’s on this butter thing.”

That made Akaashi look up, frowning. “Butter?”

“Yes.” Bokuto laughed, brushing his thumb over Akaashi’s knuckles. “He’s started making his own butter. It was a shit show for a few days when he didn’t order more from our vendor and didn’t make enough for prep. He had to make more, and he spent, like, an _hour_ churning in this big ass wooden churn.” He beamed, remembering the harrowing process. “He bitched and whined the _whole time_ while our pastry chef Yaku sat in the corner and laughed at him.” Akaashi had a tiny smile now, so Bokuto continued, raising his voice and gesticulating wildly. “So, Kuroo spends, yeah, an hour!—Maybe longer—just pumping and pumping and me and Tora and Inuoka are just making all these dirty, lewd jokes—God, I can’t even repeat them, they were so _awful_ —and after all that time when Kuroo was washing the butter in these bowls of ice Yaku comes over and says to him: ‘You know you can just use a stand mixer and do it in, like, fifteen minutes.’ And the _look_ on Kuroo’s face. Keiji, oh my god.” Bokuto laughed, making his own eyes wide. “His _face_. I wish I had a camera. I wish you could have seen it! He was _so. pissed._ ” Bokuto giggled again, leaning forward and laying his head on the bed as he wheezed with laughter at the memory. Kuroo had been appalled, and shocked, and acted as if Yaku had betrayed his trust or sold his first born child to a witch by not telling him sooner.

“He ended up slapping Yaku in the face with a whole pat of butter! The _fucking sound it made_.” By now, Akaashi was giggling, breathless with the effort of not laughing too loud or displacing the tube in his throat. “Yaku shrieked, and he’s tiny but my god is he loud, and Kenma came in after five minutes of solid yelling and told them that people on the _street_ could hear them shouting. God, it was amazing.” He sat up, raising his voice in a mocking falsetto: “ _You utter prick, how dare you_!” And now, sliding his voice into a mockery of Kuroo’s harsh, jumping accent, “ _You’re right, I shouldn’t have_ wasted _the butter_!”

“ _You just wait—I’m going to poison you someday._ ”

“ _Good luck, you can’t even reach the spices on the top shelf_!”

Akaashi had turned their hands, twining their fingers together and holding on as if he were on a roller coaster. His other hand pressed to his mouth, holding in his soft, breathless laughter. Bokuto didn’t relent, but continued, in his false Yaku voice, “ _Good fucking thing nutmeg isn’t on the top shelf_!”

“Then they just kept yelling, just a bunch of stupid insults and throwing things at each other. Lev was hiding in the pastry shop! When Kenma came in and fussed at them they stopped yelling and throwing things, god, Kuroo can really lose his shit when he wants to—he got that from the French I think, those fuckers have a fiery temper.”

Akaashi took a long few moments to breathe, flapping his free hand and wheezing. “Stop, stop. Gosh.”

Bokuto smiled at him, leaning on the bed, pleased to have made him smile. He pulled their twined hands up and kissed the back of Akaashi’s hand. Akaashi said, “So, what happened with the butter?”

“Oh, it took the whole kitchen to convince Yaku to let Kuroo use his stand mixers to make more. Honestly, all that shit’s Kuroo’s stuff but if Yaku doesn’t let you in his pastry shop, you don’t go it. It’s, like, the law. God’s Law. A Commandment. It’s”—he shook his head with another laugh —“scary when you disobey him. Kuroo _could_ just go in there, it’s his restaurant, he gave that shop to Yaku, but, still, it’s a respect thing.” He wanted to squeeze their hands, but left their hands safely together on the bed, letting Akaashi choose the pressure of their fingers.

“You guys are crazy,” Akaashi said when he finally stopped laughing.

“You don’t know the half of it.” Bokuto smiled at him, and Akaashi smiled back. Bokuto thought that, maybe, for now, they were okay. He didn’t know what the future held, but he hoped that, at least now, they could face that future together. Their relationship was up in the air still, but now was not the time to discuss it, no matter how much he wanted to. “So,” he said instead, “can I come back tomorrow?”

Akaashi’s fingers twitched, and he raised one shoulder. “If you want to. I hope I’ll be gone by the end of the week.”

“Gone?” Surely they wouldn’t just let Akaashi go _home_.

Akaashi raised the other shoulder, then ducked his head and his hand tightened. “They want me to go into a program. Some facility in Manhattan. It’s…” He made a face that was absolute despair if Bokuto had ever seen one. “It’s a live-in place. I’d have to go for a few months, if I decided to do that.”

“But… you’ll do it, right?”

Akaashi pulled his hand away, tucking both of his own together under the blankets. “I don’t know. I feel like I could do it on my own…”

But he sounded like he wasn’t planning on trying very hard about it and Bokuto whispered, “I really wish you would go. It’s not a bad thing to need help.”

“He’s right,” the nurse said from her chair. They both looked up, startled, jerking their gazes to her. She was twirling her headphones into a jumble and sticking them back into her pocket. “Akaashi, dearie, like he said, there’s nothing wrong with needing or accepting help. Those people at the Center”—she said it like a proper noun—“they know what they’re doing. They’re very kind. I would know.”

They both stared at her as she stood, putting away her paperwork and pulling out a large, fat syringe without a needle. “You?” Akaashi asked, dumbfounded.

“When I was younger, yes. They helped me. They can help you, too. Now,” she said, pulling off the empty food bag from the tube. “We’ve got to push some water, then we’ll get that out of you. Okay? I know it’s uncomfortable.”

Akaashi waved a hasty hand at her. “Wait, wait.” He turned to Bokuto and said, “Could you go?”

He blinked in surprise. “What?”

“It’s just… uncomfortable. I don’t want you gone… forever. Just for today.”

“So, I can come back tomorrow?”

Akaashi paused, then reached out and touched Bokuto’s hand. “Yes, I’d like that.”

 

* * *

 

The sun was just beginning to reach the middle of the sky when Bokuto left the hospital. Lunch time. He’d need to eat before getting to the restaurant or else he might not eat until after service tonight. Kuroo had told him that he could come in around lunch time until Akaashi was out of the hospital, and, really, he was grateful to him for the time off, even though he _technically_ couldn’t afford it. He’d told Kuroo to keep half his paycheck every week until he’d paid back the bail money and it was really, really eating into his savings. He wasn’t necessarily running out of money but… he was less and less happy about the amount in there every week.

He stopped at a convenience store but as he was about to grab one of his favorite easy go-meals, he remembered how Kuroo had tossed his last can of spaghetti into the alley dumpster. He’d probably have a coronary if Bokuto came in with _another_ can. So he grabbed several sandwiches from the ready-go aisle and went on his way.

When he got to the restaurant, finishing his third sandwich, he realized immediately that something was wrong. No one was working, or if they were it was only movements for show. Hinata was on a stool at the pass, face buried in his hands with Sugawara patting his shoulder and Kenma coming in from the dining room with what looked like a shot of tequila. The rest of the line cooks were with Kai, talking softly together at the other end, and the _commis_ chefs and porter boys were wandering half heartedly in and out of the dish room, carrying spoons and pans as if they were actually working. Bokuto heard the distant, muffled sound of shouting and as he moved towards Kai and the others he hefted his bag higher up on his shoulder. “What’s going on?”

Kai looked over, arms folded over his chest and a grin on his face. “Chef is having a boss moment.”

Bokuto raised his eyebrows. Kuroo had had only a handful of moments where he was forced to put his foot down as boss, and those times were frightening and made everyone anxious and nervous. Kuroo was the kind of boss that didn’t usually have to be tough, because everyone respected him enough to do what they were supposed to do in the first place. “Oh? What happened this time? What’s wrong with him?” he asked, gesturing to Hinata, who was sucking down shots like water. Bokuto was both impressed and worried that Kuroo would see _that_.

Taketora and Fukunaga snickered, and Inuoka shook his head with a grimace. “See who’s in the office?”

Bokuto turned his head to look and saw through the glass walls Lev and Yaku sitting red faced and sullen while Kuroo screamed at them from across his desk. Gestures were wild and large—Kuroo was _really_ getting going. Yaku wasn’t even yelling back, just talking, waving his hands in tiny, frustrated circles.

“Ooh, what did they do?”

Taketora grinned, wicked and perverted. “Hinata found them having _sex_ in the basement.”

Bokuto dropped his bag in his shock. “ _What_!?”

Taketora laughed, slapping his shoulder excitedly. “Right? What the fuck! Poor Hinata, he’s in shock.”

“He is about to be drunk,” Kai said, grinning. Fukunaga stood by, nodding, and Bokuto thought the little man _hoped_ Hinata would get smashed.

“Probably a good thing, after what he saw.” Inuoka grinned, elbowing Taketora as they laughed.

The door to the office slammed open and Kuroo stormed out, stomping about and screaming, “Just get out!”

Yaku and Lev followed him out, Yaku turning to say something but Kuroo cut him off, pointing towards the door. “Go. Don’t come back until I fucking _call you_ _back._ ”

Yaku narrowed his eyes and looked like he, too, was about to explode, but he just turned and stalked out, Lev following him meekly. The door closed behind them and all eyes turned to Kuroo, who was still breathing hard, the anger rising off him like steam.

Bokuto and Kai exchanged looks, then Kai waved everyone back into motion, continuing the prep for dinner. Kuroo turned to Suga and asked, “Can you stay for a bit longer? Finish dessert prep?” He sighed, rubbing his face with his hand. “Actually, can you—I hate to ask but really we’ve got no one else—can you work doubles for the week? Your bread and some prep; obviously don’t worry about service, between the apprentices and myself we can handle that.”

Suga leaned on the counter, sighing. “I mean I don’t _want to_ but I will.”

“I would really appreciate it,” Kuroo said.

“Daichi won’t like it,” Suga mused, “but he’ll like the money.” He gasped excitedly, “Oh! I can get Logan that new water bowl I’ve been wanting to get him!”

Kuroo stopped looking angry in order to look confused. “Water bowl?”

“Yeah! It’s this little fountain! Keeps the water fresh and cool and stuff. Logan _really_ needs it.” He scoffed, rolling his eyes a bit. “A bowl. Really. What sort of water comes from a bowl?”

Kuroo stared at him. “I assume whatever water you put in it.”

“But it gets tepid so fast. And hair can get in it. Logan sheds _so much_ we have to wash out his bowl like six times a day.”

“Won’t the hair just get in the fountain?”

Suga held up a finger. “Not if we cover it.”

“How will the dog drink from it then?”

“He’ll push a little button to open it.” Suga grinned, pleased with himself. Kuroo shook his head, disbelieving, and Suga said, “He’s a _smart dog_ , Kuroo, don’t doubt him. Also… why were you so harsh on them?”

Kuroo narrowed his eyes at him dubiously. “What do you mean? It’s unsanitary, for one; two, even if it wasn’t, they were fooling around at _work_.”

Suga’s smile was smug. “While others were here, you mean?”

Now, Kuroo looked even more angry. If he understood what Sugawara was insinuating or not he gave no sign, but said instead, “You can come in later if you want. Work four to four?”

“Sure.” Suga smiled, waving a hand. “I’ll go see what they were working on.” And he walked back to the pastry shop, snapping his fingers and gathering a handful of apprentice chefs to come with him.

Kuroo looked over at Bokuto, frowning. “Why are you still here?”

Bokuto blinked, laughing nervously. “Need some ice or something? I can dunk your head in a bucket of water. We might lose a bunch of ice.” He mimicked steam rising off Kuroo’s head with his fingers and a _wssshhh_ ing sound with his mouth.

Kuroo’s eyes narrowed. “Shut up, Bokuto.” He shook his head, muttering, “Can’t believe this shit. Hey, how’s your model doing?”

“Oh—he’s… he’s better. We talked… I don’t think he’s mad at me anymore. I’m hoping that I can go back tomorrow.”

Kuroo nodded, looking him over. “Like I said—you can take the mornings to go. But I need you to work twice as hard when you’re here. If you’re going to be my _sous_ by December, I need you to step up. We’ve got a lot to do.” He turned away, glancing over the kitchen and the flurry of activity as people got back to work, his mind floating away as he began going over the day’s to-do list in his head.

Bokuto nodded, a feeling of accomplishment blooming once again at the mention of his upcoming promotion. “Yes, Chef,” he said, picking up his bag and going to change.

 

* * *

 

Kuroo stared at the ticket in his hand, the cleanly printed words ‘CUT BGR HALF’ printed in large red letters along with a list of a complicated burger: whole wheat bun, well done patty, Swiss cheese, lettuce, tomato, horseradish, crispy bacon, a runny sunny egg, and french fries. As one of the servers came in he snapped at her, “Go get Oikawa.”

“Can I get table seven?”

He gave her his _regarder sans retourner_ : a look that has been known to silence screaming children, separate fighting dogs, stop a bullet in its tracks, and reduce anything and everything around him to dust. She backed out, tittering on stiletto heels. He ducked to his work, waiting furiously for Oikawa to come back. Plating pasta was messy, so it always took him an extra moment to clean the plates of sauce splash. He slid it over the counter and when Oikawa came in with another server Kuroo snapped his fingers at the younger boy. “Take that for him. Table twenty two.”

“Yes, Chef,” the boy said, taking it and leaving in a rush. Kuroo had been in a mood all night ever since the Yaku and Lev fiasco and everyone but Oikawa seemed to understand to not fuck with him.

Kuroo snatched the ticket and shoved it in Oikawa’s face. “What the f—” He stopped himself, starting over, “What is this?”

Oikawa took the ticket, smiling, as he always did. “A VIP asked for it. He said he wasn’t feeling your Italian menu and asked if we could make him a burger instead.”

Kuroo glowered. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Kai moving in to plate beside him, while Bokuto ran the grill and Inuoka stepped in Bokuto’s station. All in silence. They were either excited to hear Kuroo tear Oikawa a new one, or worried enough that his temper would flare back on them that they wanted to keep out of his way. “We don’t have burgers on our menu,” he growled.

“We’ve got the ingredients, though.” Oikawa smiled, glancing down the ticket. “It’s easy to just slap one together.”

“You get back here and fucking do it, then.”

Oikawa actually blinked, thrown off by Kuroo’s animosity. “Hey, look, he comes every week, spends tons of money. He’s had this menu for weeks, it can’t be _that_ hard to—”

Kuroo flipped a spatula he’d snatched from the grill’s bar handles onto the table. “Make it your goddamn self, you twittering dick.”

Oikawa actually paled a bit under his stare. “I thought, y’know, since he’s a regular—”

“Regular or not, our menu is _set._ I’m willing to tweak orders a bit sometimes but I’m not making a fucking burger for some posh shit hole—”

Bokuto yelled suddenly, “I can do it!”

Oikawa beamed. “Oh, wonderful.”

“No,” Kuroo snapped, pointing at Bokuto. “You will not. We’ve got too much—”

“Dude,” Bokuto said, “you’re wasting more time arguing about it than just letting me make it. Yo, Yuuki, slice me up some ‘taters! Thin and stringy like your dick.”

“Got it!” Yuuki called back, ignoring the crude comment, already rushing off towards the pantry for some potatoes.

Kuroo glowered at him and through clenched teeth snarled, “I’m not making a fucking _burger_.”

“Yeah, you don’t have to,” Bokuto said, sautéing some vegetables. “Don’t worry about it. Me and Yuuki can do it. I’ll even take it out to him myself.” He’d already sweated through his coat, and dumped cornstarch down the front of his pants to soak up sweat, something he reserved for the really hectic and hot nights. The dining room was warm and full of body heat, which leaked into the already boiling kitchen, and Bokuto was a man who preferred t-shirts in freezing weather anyway. His bandana was sweat stained, his hair pushed back on his head and his eyes bright with the adrenaline of service, looking like a man deranged.

Oikawa stammered, “I-I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

But Kuroo turned to him and growled, “Get out. Tell Mr. _V. I. P_ ”—he said it with as much derision as he could muster—“his burger is coming up.”

“And…” Oikawa looked nervous now, “the other cover?”

Kuroo snatched the ticket out of his hand and looked at the other order that had escaped his notice when the burger had made him see red. “Fire one venison!” He slapped the ticket up onto the shelf. “Get the fuck out,” he told him.

Oikawa glanced at Bokuto, who was crouched at the lowboy digging out chunks of ground beef they were using for a different dish and slipping over to Taketora’s station to dig out veggies.

“The fuck—keep off my station, asshole,” Tora told him, but with no venom behind his voice.

“Ah, shucks, you love me here. You like me all up in your shit, touching your things.” He bumped hips with him, wiggling his eyebrows, then bounced away as Tora threw mushroom caps at him.

“Hey, fuckers, don’t waste my shit!” Kuroo shouted at them.

“Yes, Chef!”

Ten minutes later, Bokuto was dumping slender golden brown fries onto a drip tray and sprinkling salt on them. He pulled the grilled bun from the flat-top and slapped sauce and veggies onto the patty he’d had resting for a few minutes. “Done,” he told Kuroo. “Wanna look at it?”

“Don’t give a shit,” Kuroo remarked, bent over the pass plating the venison.

Bokuto laughed, removing his apron and tossing it over his shoulder, taking the burger and the venison from the pass. “Be right back.” And he kicked the port door open as he left, causing a waitress to shriek in terror as she tried to come in. “Sorry ‘bout that!” he called over his shoulder.

Kuroo shook his head. Burger. Fucking burger. He didn’t love hoity-toity customers on the best of days and nights like this only made him hate them more. He was a chef, they were in _his_ restaurant, if they didn’t want his fucking food get then get the fuck out of his place. That’s _it._

Kai touched his arm. “ _Calmes, mon frère, calmes._ ”

“ _Je sais, je sais,_ ” Kuroo replied, breathing slowly. He needed to calm down before he did something bad to the food or said something overly cruel to his chefs. Kitchen shit-talk was one thing but with how high his temper was flaring tonight he was worried he’d actually say something truly mean if he wasn’t careful.

Bokuto came back into the kitchen, a shit eating smile plastered onto his face—but the fire in his eyes said how angry he was.

“What’s up?” Kuroo asked. Bokuto stalked around the pass, throwing his apron down and yanking the large meat cleaver off the house knife rack. “Wait—shit!” Kuroo said, grabbing at his sleeve and missing as he pushed past. “What the hell’s going on?”

Bokuto held the knife up. “I forgot to cut it in half and he _told me so_ with some very _specific_ words.”

Oikawa burst into the kitchen, gasping, his voice higher than usual, “Bokuto, please,—god! Put that thing down!” Oikawa wasn’t used to sharp knives held close to his face. He took a hasty step back, as if guarding the door. “Come on, he’s just drunk. He didn’t mean—”

Bokuto flashed the cleaver in his face and he shut up. “Move.”

Oikawa looked like he was going to hold his ground but Bokuto leaned closer, his bulk making him seem taller than he was, and Oikawa’s hands fluttered uncomfortably before he stepped aside and Bokuto slipped past him out the door. Kuroo dropped everything he was doing and rushed around to watch this debacle for himself. He and Oikawa stepped out, hiding behind the little wall that hid the door from the general room and peeked out. The table was close enough that they could hear every word.

Every eye turned to Bokuto as he walked out carrying the cleaver in a very _unchef-like_ way, high in the air, blade facing upwards. “Sorry, sir,” he said as he came upon the table. “You wanted your burger cut?”

The man’s eyes were so wide Kuroo could see the glossy whites of his eyes even from here. The sheen of sweat on his forehead was pronounced by just how off putting it was in his suit and tie and sitting next to a too young, too slinkily dressed woman that was probably paid to be with him. She pushed herself back, away from Bokuto, and Oikawa made a pitiful _oh god_ noise in his throat.

“What the hell do you think you’re—” the man spluttered, then yelped when Bokuto brought the cleaver down on the plate and stabbed at the burger. He hacked at it, raising and slamming the knife down two, three times until he wiggled it and pushed the pieces of burger apart.

“Well done enough for you, _sir_?” Bokuto asked, flashing a wicked grin and twirling the knife dangerously on his finger like a circus performer or a teppanyaki chef, flashy and dangerous.

“How _dare_ you!” The man stood up so sharply that his chair clattered to the floor.

“Aw, fuck,” Oikawa muttered, springing out from behind the wall and rushing to try and calm the customer and somehow make him happy.

At this point Kuroo didn’t really care, but he still followed Oikawa out and grabbed at the back of Bokuto’s coat. The angry man, red faced and pulling at the knot in his tie, shouted, “You better cage that animal before—”

“Don’t finish that,” Kuroo threatened, glancing pointedly at the knife Bokuto still held. “He doesn’t even really need that to prove to you how much you don’t want to finish that sentence.” To Bokuto he said, “Come on, lummox, let’s go.”

Bokuto laughed a sharp, vicious laugh at the man before Kuroo wrestled the knife from his hand and pushed him back towards the door. People followed them with wide eyes and camera phones and Bokuto waved happily at them until Kuroo smacked him upside his head. As they rounded the wall to the door the other cooks that had gathered at the door scattered, rushing back to their stations.

“Are you mad?” Bokuto asked.

Kuroo laughed, shrugging, dropping the knife in a bus tub to be cleaned later. “I probably should be, but I’m not. Not at you, anyway. Fuck Oikawa, we aren’t some _à la carte_ dive bar.”

Bokuto grinned. “Bro, his _face_. I’m gonna be fucking laughing about it for weeks.”

“Me too. Now get back on your station, we’ve still got a full board.” Kuroo grinned, though, his mood suddenly improved.

 

* * *

 

Kuroo and Bokuto were walking towards the busy street to catch a cab, both of them munching on bacon and french fry grilled cheeses Bokuto had made before they left. “Dude,” Kuroo said around a mouthful, “if you didn’t go to the gym three times a week, you’d be so fat.”

Bokuto beamed, pleased he’d gotten Kuroo to eat some of _his_ comfort food for a change. “It’s amazing, right?”

“It’s delicious,” Kuroo said. He sighed happily around a new bite. “I’m glad you’ve decided to come home with me.”

“Aw, bro,” Bokuto said with a simpering, flirty tone. “How sweet of you.”

Kuroo elbowed him. “Shut up. I just mean—you live so far away. The hospital is closer, anyway. And I can make sure that you eat and sleep.”

“I’m fully capable of taking care of myself. I have matured to adulthood all on my own, thank you very much.”

“And I’m not even sure how you managed that.”

Bokuto shoved him into the street, and Kuroo yelped a laugh as a taxi screamed on its horn as it passed him.

“You trying to kill me!”

Bokuto grinned wickedly. “I gotta get that head chef position somehow.”

“Kai’s next in line, technically,” Kuroo pointed out.

“He’s leaving, bro.” Bokuto took another bite of his sandwich, munching on crispy bacon. “Then it’s _all_ me,” he said in a sing-song voice.

They caught their cab and when they stepped into Kuroo’s apartment Madame Cera came purring up to them, unsure which of them she wanted to pet her more. She chose Kuroo after he went to the fridge and pulled out a piece of shredded chicken for her to munch on.

“Can I use your shower?” Bokuto asked, patting the front of his pants lewdly. “Gotta clean off. It was hot in the kitchen tonight.”

Kuroo made a face. “Gross. Please shower before you even sit on any of my furniture.”

“Makin’ pancakes, bro,” Bokuto said as he vanished into the bathroom.

Tsukishima came out of the bedroom, looking rumpled and sleepy, as if them coming in had woken him. He shuffled over to Kuroo and kissed his cheek, leaning into his side when Kuroo put an arm around him. “Are you making midnight breakfast?”

Kuroo’s stomach heaved at the thought. “God, no.” He shuddered. “No, that’s Bo’s term for—erm—how do I put this?” He made a face, and Tsukishima pulled away to frown at him. “Y’know when you sweat a lot and your junk gets all gross and sticky?” Tsukishima’s own look of disgust was so amusing that Kuroo laughed aloud. “Sometimes, before I can stop him, when it gets too hot, he throws cornstarch down his pants to keep it from sticking and it—y’know—cause of sweat it—clumps.” He could barely finish his sentence he was laughing so hard because Tsukishima understood a moment before he said the words.

“Oh, _gross_.” Tsukishima walked away from him, slapping his hands away when Kuroo tried to grab for him. “No, don’t touch me, you nasty—”

“I didn’t do it!” Kuroo laughed, chasing him, then _actually_ chasing him when he rushed away to hide in the bedroom.

“I’m going back to bed, don’t come in here,” Tsukishima said, shooing Kuroo away. “You smell like garlic—you shower too before you come to bed.”

Kuroo stood by the bed, petting Madame as she bounded up, then leaning down and kissing Tsukishima’s cheek. “I will. How was work?”

Tsukishima hummed softly. “Fine. You know, I wonder if I should get one of those standing desks? My back has been hurting more and more.”

“Oh, getting old, are we?”

Tsukishima opened one eye to glare at him. “You’re older than me.”

“But I’m young at heart.”

Tsukishima chuckled but turned away from him, pulling the blankets up to his chin. “Go away, old man.”

Kuroo smiled, and went to have a nice glass of wine while he waited for Bokuto to get out of the shower.


	26. butcher

On Monday morning Kuroo looked his notes on his phone and double checked the address. He eyed the butcher shop and nodded to himself, then pulled on the door—and found it locked. He stepped back, glancing over the windows until he saw the _Hours of Operation_ decal and found that he was a whole hour early. “Damn,” he muttered, knocking his hand against his pants. He leaned against a bench outside the shop, leaning to see what was down the block. He saw a coffee shop, and was wondering if he should just go and sit until it opened.

“Hey!” someone called, and he was used to people yelling random things on the streets of NYC so he ignored it, looking at his phone and pretending he didn’t hear. The voice yelled again, “Yo, weird chef guy!”

Unless there was another _weird chef_ somewhere within the vicinity, Kuroo thought that this call might just be for him, so he looked up, and around, but saw no one.

“Up here!”

He raised his face and saw the small butcher from the market he’d come to see standing on a fire escape above the building. He wore gym shorts and had a toothbrush in his mouth.

“Oh,” Kuroo said. “Yeah, hey.” He felt uncomfortable now, as if he’d invaded the man’s personal space. “I didn’t realize how early I’d be when I got here.”

The little man smiled, waving his toothbrush around. “Yeah? Stay there! Be down in a sec!” He ducked into an open window at one of the apartments. Kuroo smiled to himself, thinking how much he’d love to live above his restaurant. Probably, he’d never leave.

After a few minutes the man came out of a tiny side door, dressed in all black, long sleeves, thick jeans, and heavy work boots, rushing around to come to shake his hand. “What’s up? I’m Nishinoya, by the way!” He was loud, and cheerful at seven thirty in the morning. “What brings you here? Did you like that side of beef I sent you home with?”

Kuroo laughed, following the man inside once he’d unlocked the door to the butcher shop. The shop itself was lit nicely by the morning sunlight from the windows, the red tile of the floor glinting and clean. The case was mostly empty, only a handful of products still on display from overnight. Kuroo assumed he would fill it when they opened, to keep the product as fresh as possible. Jerky and other products that required no refrigeration hung above the case and bottles of homemade sauces lined the top. He glanced at them with appreciation and interest. But he’d look through them another time. “Oh, I loved it. I forgot how to butcher it though, so my chefs and I had a fun time figuring it out.”

Nishinoya laughed loudly, a laugh that was as boisterous as his intense personality, full-bodied and filling the small shop front. “I told you I would have done it for you!”

“No, it was fun. It was a nice learning experience.”

Nishinoya shrugged, smiling. “What can I do for you then, chef?” He put his hands on his hips, eying Kuroo up and down with unabashed approval. Kuroo had worn his meat centered pants in honor of coming to the shop: black pants with red and white skeletons of cows, sheep, and chickens. He thought the little man would like them. “Well, first, I’d like to buy more meat. Second, if you wouldn’t mind, could you show me how to butcher that side of beef? It’s been bothering me for weeks.”

Nishinoya beamed, nodding along. “Absolutely! As long as you pay for it, I’ll show you how to do anything.” He winked, grinning.

Kuroo laughed too. “Wonderful. I was mesmerized at how fast and sure you were with your hands at the market.”

Nishinoya smiled, waving him back towards the workshop. “Well this place has been in my family for generations, so I’d hope it would be in my blood.”

“Oh, really? When was it opened?”

Nishinoya frowned, hand on his chin. “Nineteen… sixty something?”

Kuroo took a moment to think, unsure if he would be offending the man. “And… how many generations has this been… open?”

“Oh! Well it was actually my great great grandfather started his in Queens and passed it down to my great grandfather, and he passed it to my grandfather, then my dad had a falling out with him and came and opened _this_ one… so this specific shop isn’t generational.But it still runs in the blood.”

“Oh, I see. And your dad taught you?”

Nishinoya beamed, moving towards a little locker and opening it, pulling out what looked like chainmail. “I held a knife before I held a rattle, let’s put it that way.” He held out a bundle of chainmail for Kuroo to take and said, “Put that on.”

Kuroo eyed it with confusion, pulling it apart until he figured out that it was in the shape of a shirt. “Uh—what for?” he asked, but pulled it on, having to tug pieces of it from his hair when it tangled. It was heavier than it looked, but in a pleasant way, the weight like a promise of a day’s work to be done.

“Safety,” Nishinoya told him, pulling on his own, then taking out two large, heavy duty plastic aprons and giving Kuroo one. “That on top, and one last thing.” And he pulled out two chainmail gloves with a wicked grin. “I love these things. Come on!”

Kuroo followed him to a huge door on the side wall and Nishinoya opened it to an extremely cold walk in, the smell of flesh wafted from it before he’d even fully opened the door. Inside among the fog of cold hung carcasses of steer, sheep, and pigs. Whole chickens, turkeys, and ducks sat on shelves, looming with large, fat round bodies. It was very clean, if a bit macabre.

Nishinoya waved a hand at the carcasses, grinning. “You’re in luck, I was planning on breaking down a few halves today.” He hooked a giant hook into the chain holding one of the hanging steers and pulled it towards the front of the cooler.

“Need help?” Kuroo asked, since Nishinoya was several inches shorter than the steer he was attempting to pick up.

“Nah,” Nishinoya said with a wicked grin. He wrapped his arms around the meat and hefted it off the hook and carried it out of the cooler. “Close that, yeah?”

Kuroo watched wide eyed and more than impressed, following him out and closing the door behind him. “That thing’s bigger than you are.”

Nishinoya tossed the meat onto the long, clean wooden counter. “Yeah, maybe, but he’s dead!” Nishinoya said jovially, laughing like a madman. “So! First thing you need to know,” he said, pulling on one of the chainmail gloves onto his left hand. “Always wear protection and use sharp knives.”

Kuroo nodded. “I know all about sharp knives.”

“I bet you do,” Nishinoya said. He picked up a honing steel and a long, slender carving blade. Before he could get into sharpening it there was a tiny sound like a bell and Nishinoya looked up sharply. “Asahi?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” came another voice from the front of the shop. “You left the door unlocked.” The man’s voice moved across the front of the shop, and Nishinoya smiled.

“Let’s go meet the old man,” Nishinoya said, setting down his blades and tugging off the glove. “Real fast, then we’ll get to work.”

Kuroo laid his own glove on the table and followed him to the front where another man was crouched, petting the oldest dog that Kuroo had ever seen and unhooking a leash from it’s collar. It was an old bloodhound that used to be a lovely rustic red and brown color, but now his muzzle was mottled silver and gray, and his muscles shook even laying down in the corner of the shop where the man set him. The dog turned it’s head in Kuroo’s direction, but Kuroo wasn’t sure if the dog had eyes at all, much less if it could see him. His face was so heavy with wrinkles they fell over his eyes and obscured his vision, made his face long with what looked like sorrow, even though his tail thumped against the floor when Kuroo came closer, leaning down and holding out a hand for him to sniff.

The man crouched beside him said with a smile, “His eyes might be bad but he’s still got the best nose in the world. He could smell you outside before we ever walked in here.”

“Ah,” Kuroo said, smiling too, and reaching out a hand to brush his knuckles over the dog’s head. He was soft and the skin around his skull was thin, but his tail beat twice more at Kuroo’s attention. “Good boy, isn’t he?”

“He’s the best,” Nishinoya said, coming around to pat the dog’s rump. “Ole’ Hickory’s his name. Been with me for almost thirteen years. He’s like our mascot, now.”

Kuroo chuckled. Old Hickory was an old knife brand, a very good brand for butchers. After giving the dog a few more pats he held out a hand to the other man, “I”m Kuroo, by the way. I’m a chef.”

“Asahi,” the man said, taking his hand with a firm grip.

Nishinoya said, “He’s here to learn butchery.” He nudged Asahi with an elbow. “Hey, remember when you first showed up?”

“You mean when you practically dragged me here?”

“I needed help!” Nishinoya laughed. “You hated your job _and_ you looked like you could carry the product, unlike the other guy I tried to hire.” He jerked a thumb at Asahi, looking over at Kuroo. “He looks like he’d make a good butcher, doesn’t he?”

Kuroo eyed Asahi, who was indeed tall and broad, his arms corded with muscle and hair tied back into a neat bun. “Yeah, guess you kinda do look like you would?”

Asahi huffed. “Everyone says that!” He stood, folding his arms and looking at Nishinoya. “Want me to fill the case?”

“That’d be great,” Nishinoya said with a smile. Then, to Kuroo: “Come on, dude, let’s start your lesson.”

They went back to the workshop, Asahi locking the door for good measure, then he too donned the chainmail, looking more like a knight than either Kuroo or Nishinoya. “I take it you’re new?” Kuroo asked him.

Asahi made an odd face, at once annoyed and grief stricken. “If _new_ means I’ve been here for three years. Then yes.”

Nishinoya said from the table, manipulating a huge piece of beef, “And you’re still learning!” He turned and walked off towards the cooler again, presumably to get more meat.

Asahi flicked his eyes in an aggravated roll, but a smile played on his lips. “He’ll forever treat me like an apprentice even though I’ve been here for years.”

Kuroo chuckled. “My training was much the same, don’t worry.”

“You said you were a chef? Where did you work, then? Somewhere fancy? _Chef’s Table? Per Se?_ ”

“Ha!” Kuroo laughed, watching as Nishinoya brought smaller pieces out of the cooler, pieces that he’d already broken down on the larger steer he’d brought out earlier. Round, loin, rib, and chuck. “Those places have three Michelin Stars, and I’m sort of a nobody here in this city. No, I worked in three star restaurants in Paris. Boy, it was hell. Started as a dishwasher at _Guy Savoy_ … even though the Chef who asked me to come said I’d be a cook there—he of course meant after he’d busted my chops for half a year.” He laughed, remembering his horror at leaving his home and trying to start a new life as a _escuelerie._ “When I finally got a line job I ended up moving to _Alain Ducasse_ and, well, it’s a long story. Needless to say, I learned well. You will too. He seems like a knowledgeable mentor.”

They both watched as Nishinoya came back to the table with a whole cart of meat and began expertly trimming fat with quick, sure slashes of his knife for preparation. “He’s knowledgeable… but mentor is probably the wrong word for him,” Asahi laughed. “Teacher isn’t quite right either. But still, I’ve learned a lot since coming here.”

“Did you work somewhere else before?”

“Not in the food industry. I was a dog walker.”

Kuroo blinked in surprise. “That’s an odd leap; dog walker to butcher.”

Asahi chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “Yeah, well, Yuu certainly has a way to bring people around to his side. Mostly by just dragging them along, whether they want to or not. I’m happy I did it, though.”

“You like the job that much?”

Asahi’s smile was kind. “I like _him_ that much. The job’s just a bonus, really.”

Nishinoya called, “What are you two doing? Think I’m just doing this for fun? Get over here and learn.”

They exchanged amused glances and moved to stand beside the man, and he nudged Kuroo to stand in front of a piece identical to his own. “So we can do it together.” Kuroo nodded, eying several sets of knives that Nishinoya had laid out between them. He plucked a blue food-safe plastic glove from a box and pulled it on over the chainmail and padding, then handed one to Kuroo to do the same.

“This, gentleman,” he was saying, “is what’s called the _round._ The ass of the animal. Well,” Nishinoya corrected himself with a scowl, “no, it’s technically the leg. But my dad always called it the ass, as did his father before him. So that’s what we’ll call it. Big round ass!” He held up a blade, long and slender and slightly curved. “What’s this?” he asked Kuroo.

“A knife,” Kuroo said immediately.

Asahi laughed and Nishinoya shook his head. “You’re a chef, you know how many knives there are in the world. Be specific.”

Kuroo frowned, eying the knife for a moment. “Either a cimeter or a breaking blade; I’m not sure which.”

Nishinoya beamed. “Cimeter! You’re good. We use both, honestly, but this one’s my favorite. Now, I assume you know how to hold a knife so I’ll skip the sissy stuff—first cut we’re gonna make is we’re gonna cut off the oyster steak.” He pointed to the extra knife with raised eyebrows. “Well? Pick it up.”

Kuroo blinked. “What, now?”

“Learn by doing, that’s the way.”

He wasn’t wrong. So Kuroo picked up the blade and turned his meat to the same direction as Nishinoya’s. “Oyster steak? I’ve never actually used that particular piece of meat.” He followed Nishinoya’s directions, cutting into the meat just above the aitch bone. It was more awkward for Kuroo to manipulate the blade and the meat together, especially a piece of meat this size, but he managed to carefully stab the blade into it and slice around the same piece that Nishinoya was cutting.

Asahi did it less awkwardly, more practiced, but not nearly as quick as Nishinoya who, in the blink of an eye, had the steak off and set aside. Kuroo blinked, concentrating as he sliced while Nishinoya talked. “This is a good cut; it’s got lots of moisture, very tender. I like to reverse sear mine.”

“Oh, that’s a new technique.” Kuroo had never actually used the reverse sear. A technique that was exactly what it sounded like: cooking a piece of meat long, low, and slow, just before it’s finished cooking remove it from the low and sear it in a hot, hot pan to get a beautiful caramelization on the outside and finish cooking. He’d wanted to try it, but just never had the time.

He didn’t have the time now, because Nishinoya was moving on, talking as fast as he was cutting, barely pausing for breath. “Now we’ll take the shank off, just cut right through those muscles and tendons. You know how athletes will tear their ACL, MCL, or whatever? This is it. We’re cutting through that. Use the table here for leverage—” He moved the thinner end of the meat over the edge and cut briskly through thick, fat, white tendons, pressing on the thin end of the leg and the edge of the table helped him break the rest of the muscles, until he could cut it clean off. “This is the shank, obviously, it’s a pretty tough piece of meat, but good for braising.” He waited for Kuroo to follow him, and when he had caught up said:

“Now we can unbundle those muscle groups. Top round, knuckle, eye round, bottom round. These are actually pretty easy, see how we have these seams to follow? Just slice right along those seams.” He did it as he spoke, using quick, sharp movements and opening up the meat as he did so like a book. Kuroo found this part hard, and Nishinoya set his aside to come over and point to where Kuroo’s knife should go, running his finger along the seams. “See them?”

“No,” Kuroo admitted, a bit ashamed.

Asahi said from along the table, “I didn’t either when I first started.”

Nishinoya flapped a hand at him distractedly. “Yeah, but you’ve got it now. All you gotta do is work on your speed.”

Asahi laughed. “You’ve been doing it for twenty years, give me just a few to catch up.”

“Okay, look,” Nishinoya said, turning his attention back to Kuroo and pulling on the cap muscle to reveal the top round. “See how it’s just sort of coming with my hand? Just cut right there, let it show you where to cut.”

Kuroo followed his finger with the knife, careful not to get too close even though he wore the protective layering.

“Next we move on to the bone itself, it has lots of tendons and stuff that holds the femur in place, so we just snip, snip, snip, cut through all that. That bone’s good for stock, let me tell you.” He took the bone and tossed it aside then looked at Kuroo, waiting.

He was struggling a bit to pull the bone off completely—the muscles were thick—and it took him a moment to carve around the dense bone. “Sorry I’m so slow,” Kuroo said, again ashamed of himself because he felt like he really should be better at this. Kai had been good the other day when they’d worked on the piece Nishinoya had sent from the market. Bokuto and Fukunaga had known more about butchery than he had, too, and it really bothered him. He thought Fukunaga only worked on fish, but apparently his knowledge was more vast than Kuroo had given him credit for. Nishinoya was waiting for him, observing him with a practiced and interested eye.

“You can use that for bone marrow,” he said once Kuroo had pulled the bone free and set is aside.

Kuroo nodded. “I figured.”

“We don’t have _too many_ people buying bones here, so I could set some aside for you if you want. Just let me know.”

“I certainly will. That sounds delicious.”

Nishinoya patted the piece of meat again. “So now we’re left with just this big chunk which is pretty easy to break down. Just cut right along this fat here and we’ll cut out our eye round, then along the side right here, that’s the bottom round, and then the heel right after that. That’s the muscle right behind the knee, it’s pretty tough but you can braise it and slice it really thin.”

He worked quickly, and since it was just the meat, no tough tendons or bones, Kuroo was able to follow along with him easily. They had broken the whole round into larger pieces, but there was still more to do. Cleaning the meat meant slicing off bundles of fat that sat on the muscle, cutting away the fascia, bands of white fat and collagen, so that the finished steaks not only looked good in the case, but also cutting through muscle fibre that would give the finished product the best texture and allow it to cook properly.

As they worked on each piece, breaking it down into more pieces, the lovely dark pink shade of beef was revealed under the white fat, and Kuroo was already thinking of all the dishes he could make. Especially as they began cutting the actual steaks out: sirloin tips, eye round for roast beef, London Broil steaks, and pieces that could be used for tartare.

“Well, there ya have it,” Nishinoya said once they’d finished the round. “Nice and pretty.”

Kuroo looked over his handy work, pleased. The smell of the workshop as they worked was pungent, but not bad. Fresh meat was bright, and reminded him that he was indeed a carnivore, and that this meat would be delicious, especially cooked over an open flame. “That’s fascinating.”

“Fun, isn’t it?” Nishinoya grinned at him. “And that’s just the beginning.”

From the end of the table Asahi told Nishinoya, “I’ll go work on the case now. But let me know when you’re done so I can use the band-saw. I can work on yours, too, if you want. Save some time.”

“Sure thing,” Nishinoya said, then, to Kuroo he explained, “We have to be careful when we use the saw, y’know? It’s great for precision and to cut through bone but when we do it bone dust gets in the air and can sit on the meat.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, and we gotta dust it off before it sits too long. It’ll color and oxidize the meat, making it that dirty brown color that no one wants to buy. Don’t want that!” He pushed aside their cuts and pulled another large chunk down to focus on. “Okay, so, next we’ll move onto the loin…”

Three hours later, they’d successfully broken down the entire steer, both halves, Kuroo doing the entire second half himself with Nishinoya watching and giving helpful tips from right beside him. Asahi did his work silently, quickly, taking the fresh cut and filling the case in the front of the shop. When they were done and Nishinoya was wrapping the cuts in brown, crinkly butchers paper, Kuroo said while he was drying his hands after a nice scrubbing, “Sorry I kept you so long. I didn’t think you’d actually do a whole _class_.”

Nishinoya laughed happily. “Gotta do it right. Come back anytime! You’ve still got a lot to learn till you’re as good as a real butcher.”

“Oh, I doubt I could ever do it all like you do. I just want to be able to break it down for my restaurant. If we can use every part of the animal, really respect it the way it deserves, I think that’d be best.”

“See, you’re good people,” Nishinoya told him, putting everything in a large sack for him. “You’re the kind of chef I like. Where do you work again?”

“I own _je sais pas_ up near Columbus Circle.”

“Oh! Wow, I’ve read good things about that place. Didn’t know we had a celebrity in the house.” He winked at Kuroo, pushing the large sack filled with everything Kuroo had processed inside it.

“Ha! No, it’s nothing like that. I’m just trying to share my love of cooking and food.” He took out his wallet and, after Nishinoya told him a price, frowned at him. “Oh, please, I know it’s worth more than that.”

Nishinoya drummed his fingers on the table, thinking. “Well, you did most of the work, so I’m not charging you a butchery fee. Just for the meat.”

Kuroo raised an eyebrow, thumbing out an extra hundred. “While I appreciate it, I don’t want to run you out of business.”

Nishinoya took the money, smiling broadly. “Speaking of business! You got a good meat vendor?”

“You got anything more than beef?” Kuroo smiled back.

“Sure thing! Beef, turkey, chicken, duck, lamb, I can get anything you need!”

Kuroo thought a moment, then took out his phone and opened his contact information. “If I knew a guy that could get you veal in the summer… would you be interested?”

“Why only in the summer?”

“They’re his own. They’ll have been weaned off the heifer by then.”

Nishinoya’s eyes widened. “Wow. I mean, yeah, I could work with that. That’d be awesome.”

“I’ll leave you his information. When you talk to him, tell him I sent you. We’ve been working together for a while now.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Nishinoya said, smiling. Kuroo walked out of the workshop, said his goodbyes to Asahi and patted the dog for good measure, then left the shop. He couldn’t help but heft the meat in his bags, liking the weight of them. He hadn’t had such a fun time with a knife in a _long_ time. Not since his earliest apprenticeship days learning how to break down a chicken.

 

* * *

 

The wind was blowing hard and fast when Akaashi left the hospital. Bokuto carried his bag as they walked down the street, waiting for traffic to die down before they hailed a cab. He watched Akaashi carefully as they walked. He was wrapped in his favorite sweater that Makki had brought him, appropriate for the weather but not enough to keep him warm since it was getting into fall.

Bokuto put his arm around him to try to keep him warm, and noticed again the soft pink color of his skin. He hadn’t lost any of his paleness, but he was less washed out now, his body slightly better able to push blood through his veins. The doctors said it was a good sign that he could recover.

“Do you feel better?” Bokuto asked after they’d found a cab and were on their way back to the brownstone.

Akaashi shrugged, leaning on his hand, watching the buildings pass by. “Yes and no.” He was quiet a moment longer, and Bokuto kept his arm around him, squeezing when he thought Akaashi wasn’t going to elaborate. “I mean… I’m not happy. I don’t… like how I feel.”

Bokuto frowned, rubbing his shoulder with his fingers. “You look better,” he said gently. He wasn’t good at subtlety, and he was worried that he’d upset Akaashi more, just by trying to talk to him. But it was true. He’d gained a bit of weight, but it made him look healthier. The flush under his skin was a soft, living pink. His eyes were brighter, his skin less sallow. It was just a bit, not enough that a stranger would notice, but he still liked it immensely, and hoped that Akaashi would only continue to get better. “So the doctors recommended that place in Manhattan, right? Will you go? You’d have to go soon, they said.”

Akaashi sighed, shifting uncomfortably so that Bokuto removed his arm. “I don’t know.”

Bokuto bit his lip, reaching over and taking Akaashi’s hand. “You know, I didn’t want to stop my drug habit, but it wasn’t good for me, so I did.”

Akaashi turned to scowl at him. “You had a drug habit?”

“Yeah… for a while when I first moved to Florida.” He rubbed Akaashi’s knuckles with his thumb. “And even though I loved it, it made me able to work for days and days, I didn’t have to sleep, it made me hyper aware of everything around me…” He looked up, saw Akaashi giving him a worried look. “I realized that it wasn’t good for me. I couldn’t live like that. So I had to fight for months to stop it. But I did.” He squeezed Akaashi’s hand again. “And you can get better, too. I’m an idiot and I did it.”

Akaashi chuckled softly. “You’re not an idiot, Bokuto.” He only shrugged so Akaashi continued, “But I…” He took his hand away, pressing his fingers together and clenching them into fists. “I guess I understand… that this… diet —”

“It’s not a diet.”

Akaashi cut his eyes at him. “This way of life isn’t good for me. Fine. Yeah. I get it. I _understand_ in my head but it’s still … hard. It took me almost an hour to eat the breakfast they brought me this morning in the hospital.”

“I don’t blame you,” Bokuto said. “That shit’s gross. Oh—I meant to tell you—I tried to bring you real food. Good food. They wouldn’t let me bring it in.”

Akaashi laughed softly, clenching his fingers in and out of the hem of his sweater. “I would have preferred that, honestly. At least your food has flavor.”

“Speaking of food! Why don’t we go by the bookstore? Isn’t there one near your place?”

“Why?”

“I wanna find some cookbooks.”

Akaashi gave him a confused look. “You’re a chef. Why do you need a book?”

“Well,” Bokuto laughed. “I’d like to find some healthier foods to cook for you. Oh, come on, don’t make that face at me. You’ve gotta start eating more.”

Akaashi’s face had soured considerably. He really did seem to think that he could just go back to how he’d been before. Bokuto wouldn’t let that happen if he had anything to say about it. But he knew he shouldn’t just shove food down his throat. He had to figure out how to make Akaashi _want_ to eat. And then… want to eat again. It was daunting, and he had absolutely no idea how it would work, but he had to figure it out, and soon, especially if Akaashi decided to not go to the treatment facility.

“You think it’s that easy?” Akaashi asked. “Just… eat more?”

“…No. But it’s a start.”

They didn’t go to a bookstore. Akaashi shut down after the conversation, and they ended up just going to the brownstone. When they entered, Akaashi paused in the doorway, nervous, and surreptitiously listening for movement. “Guess Mattsun and Makki are still at work,” he said after a moment and moved inside the large, well lit living room. Bokuto noticed that he looked like a animal who was just being released back into the wild: hesitant, nervous, and a bit scared. He inched around the room, touching the backs of the couches, eying the new books on the bookshelf, re-familiarizing himself with the smells of the place. Bokuto let him take his time, hanging back near the foyer. Finally, Akaashi looked back at him. “Did you stay here while I was gone?”

Bokuto shook his head. “No… didn’t seem right.”

“Oh.” He seemed disappointed. “I wonder if Makki raided my closet, then…” He moved towards the stairs, Bokuto following him, and they made their way upstairs to his room. Inside, Akaashi immediately scowled in frustration when he saw that his room had been _cleaned_. He swore, rifling through a pile of neatly folded clothes that were stacked in piles arranged by color on his dresser. The shoes that had been haphazardly thrown in a corner were all lined neatly beside one another, some even hung on a newly installed wall rack. Akaashi glared at it and Bokuto couldn’t help but laugh.

“What?” Akaashi whipped around, giving him an annoyed look, flapping a hand around to the room at large. “Do you see what they did!”

“They cleaned your room.”

Akaashi pointed at him, and Bokuto was pleased to see how energetic he seemed. “No, what happened was Makki _stole something_ and”—here he did air quotes just to emphasize his point —“ _cleaned_ in order to hide the fact that it’s missing!”

Bokuto laughed again. “He’d take your things?”

Akaashi glowered, but it wasn’t for Bokuto, even though it was at him. “He takes _everything_ he can get his greedy paws on. My make up, my shoes, my shirts, my scarves. Literally anything I let him borrow it takes me _forever_ to get it back.”

“Well maybe he didn’t take something and was just being nice?”

“Fat chance.” Akaashi rolled his eyes, then sighed. “Whatever. Can’t be helped now.” He pulled out a thick, chunky sweater and opened and closed (slammed, really) drawers on his dresser until he found a pair of artfully washed out jeans. “I’m going to shower. Get that gross hospital smell off me.”

Bokuto followed him to the door, touching his arm. “Will you be okay?” He didn’t know exactly what he meant, but he knew that Akaashi hadn’t been allowed to be alone in a week and worried what he might do if he were now given the chance.

Akaashi looked up at him, pulling his arm away and frowning. “What, you worried I’ll do something to get sent back?” He said it with a bite to his voice that Bokuto was learning came when he didn’t want to admit that he was in the wrong. It was sharp, and hurtful, but Bokuto worked with sharp things and so he tried not to let his tone cut too deep.

“Yes,” he admitted, locking eyes with Akaashi, not backing down. “I am. I don’t believe that you won’t hurt yourself.”

Akaashi scoffed, stepping into the hall. “If you’re that worried just treat me like the nurses did.” He meant it sarcastically, but when he went into the bathroom Bokuto followed him. “Really?!” he yelped in outrage when Bokuto stuck his foot in the door to stop him closing it.

“Yeah,” Bokuto said simply. “I’ll just stand right here.”

“And, what, _listen?”_

Bokuto shrugged. “Guess so.”

Akaashi actually glared at him, his eyes wide with incredulity. Finally he sniffed as if it didn’t bother him—though clearly it did—and turned into the bathroom. The bathroom was L shaped, so Bokuto couldn’t see anything past the vanity in the corner, only his reflection peering worriedly back at him. The water began to run, and Akaashi tossed his clothes into the front of the bathroom where the models seemed to think every stitch of worn clothing belonged and sometimes forgot to wash for weeks. It would pile up and Bokuto sometimes felt like an adventurer on a hiking expedition climbing over the mountains of clothing they discarded.

Once he heard the crinkle of the shower curtain open and close, Bokuto stepped silently into the bathroom. He glanced at the shower but couldn’t see past the dark curtain. What he did see was a complicated digital scale beside the counter and picked it up, meaning to toss it out the little window that let in a tiny square of light, but Akaashi poked his head out just then. “Hey, what the hell?”

“You don’t need this,” Bokuto told him. He thought the numbers on it were one thing that Akaashi didn’t need to focus on.

Akaashi pushed his wet hair out of his face. “It’s _mine_. Don’t touch—hey!” He almost came out of the shower when Bokuto set the scale on the floor and stomped hard on it. Bokuto didn’t have any other shoes than his heavy construction boots he wore in the kitchen, and he was mad at the tiny thing, and a little mad at Akaashi for being so stubborn, and still mad at himself for not seeing sooner and trying to help, so the stomp was not without force. The glass cracked and the numbers on the little screen bled a spiderweb of green and black before fading to nothing.

“You don’t need it,” Bokuto repeated firmly. “You need to _feel good_. Not obsess over a number.”

Akaashi was glaring at him. “That was expensive!”

“Fine!” Bokuto shouted. “I’ll pay you back! Spend the money on food or—or clothes—or I don’t give a shit what. But not on that beast.” He scooped it up and hurled it down the hall, where it clattered against the wall and broke apart in an explosion of tiny electronics.

 _Goddammit_ , Bokuto thought, _Kuroo was right._ He didn’t know how to control himself when he was upset. Flaw number whatever the fuck, he guessed, adding it to his ever growing list of things he needed to fix about himself.

“Asshole,” Akaashi spat at him, jerking the curtain back into place and disappearing into his shower.

When he was through, he dressed and they picked up the pieces of the scale from the hallway; Bokuto wordlessly, and Akaashi ranting about how Bokuto was a jerk, and how could he, that wasn’t his property, what the hell, but Bokuto largely ignored him. Downstairs, Akaashi made himself tea and they sat in a sullen silence watching awful reruns of the Maury show until the door opened and Matsukawa and Hanamaki stepped into the brownstone.

“Keiji!” Makki said excitedly. “You’re home!” He came over and hugged Akaashi, who had stood to greet them. Then he blushed furiously when Akaashi touched the star filled scarf that Hanamaki wore, because it was Akaashi’s scarf. “Look, sorry, but it’s lovely and you’ve let me borrow things before. Besides,” he continued when Akaashi’s scowl deepened,“I cleaned your blood off the floor, you can let me borrow a scarf.”

Akaashi had nothing to say to this, so he huffed and plopped back on the couch, picking up his tea and gulping down a mouthful. Bokuto shook his head, jumping up and heading towards the door. He stopped beside Matsukawa and said, “I’ll be back. I’m going to go to the market and get something for dinner.”

“Oh, good,” Matsukawa said. “Thank you.”

They exchanged meaningful glances, then Bokuto flicked his gaze towards Akaashi and Matsukawa nodded. “Be back soon,” Bokuto said, and Makki waved at him while Akaashi ignored him. He left the brownstone, walking the several blocks to the bookstore and forcing himself to only smoke two cigarettes instead of the six he wanted, because he was still pissed off. It wasn’t Akaashi’s _fault_ he knew, but it still frustrated him to watch him ignore the symptoms and pretend that he was alright. Bokuto had done some research, spoken to nurses and his doctor, read pamphlets and medical journals and knew that Akaashi’s eating disorder was as much a mental illness as a physical one, and not one he could just take a pill or get a shot and ‘get over.’ It would take time, hard work, strong mental fortitude, and a desire to be well. But Bokuto needed Akaashi to get better. He needed Akaashi more than he needed almost anything else in his life, so he was going to do the best he could to help him, even if all he could do was cook. He could cook _good, healthy_ foods that tasted amazing to help him feel good about eating again.

The bookstore was smaller than he’d hoped, but it had all the classic books he’d been looking for. Bokuto himself had never really been big into cookbooks, preferring the internet, other chefs, and his own tongue to teach him how to cook, but he thought that if he bought some of the best ones recommended to him by other chefs then maybe he could leave them at the models’ brownstone and they could read and learn, too. Maybe Akaashi would read them and want to cook himself, learn the nuances of fresh foods and fall in love with it the way Bokuto did.

 _Larousse Gastronomique; The Joy of Cooking; Mastering the Art of French Cooking; The French Laundry Cookbook; Good Eats; Plenty: Vibrant Vegetables;_ and a handful of smaller autobiographical books that looked interesting. Bokuto _really_ couldn’t afford all of them, but he bought them anyway. If it helped Akaashi at all, even a little bit, it would be worth it.

On his way back he stopped by the supermarket and bought things for dinner, a simple dish he’d read about recently that reminded him how much he loved simple vegetables cooked beautifully. Zucchini, eggplant, rutabaga, butternut squash, yellow bell peppers, fresh parmesan cheese, herbs de Provence, and a nice bottle of olive oil. This wasn’t cheap either, especially considering the nice part of town he was in, but he didn’t care, he wanted the fresh vegetables. He had the thought that maybe Kuroo was rubbing off on him, and maybe that was a good thing, and maybe he should get with him about things he could make for Akaashi that would be delicious.

“I’m back!” he called as he carried his burdens inside. All three models looked up from the living room where they were playing cards, and none of them deigned to get up and help him carry everything to the kitchen. “Don’t get up,” he grunted as he passed. “I got it.”

“You’re strong,” Mattsun said with a wicked smile. “We believe in you.”

“What are you cooking?” Makki asked, raising his voice when Bokuto disappeared into the kitchen.

Bokuto ignored him, taking out the books and setting them on the kitchen table and flicking on the oven to preheat and a pot of water to boil. He didn’t bother putting any groceries away since he knew he was about to use it, and instead went back into the living room. “What are you guys doing?”

Akaashi held a card to his forehead with a finger, squinting at Makki, who was doing the same. “Blind Man’s Bluff,” Akaashi told him, his earlier animosity seeming to have gone.

Bokuto raised an eyebrow. He’d played something similar, but not with things as innocent as pennies as bets. He looked at Akaashi’s card, then the other two, and grinned. Akaashi had the ace and would win if he could bluff or guess his way to it. But Mattsun had the best poker face of the four of them and everyone knew it. Even though he only had a five… one could never be sure their card wasn’t lower because of the way he smirked at you.

“Don’t you guys have a bunch of DVD’s?” Bokuto asked, then: “Oh, never mind.” He moved to the large shelves on the others side of the room, looking over them. Makki was obsessive about organization (of everything but dirty clothes, apparently) and had ordered the movies by not only category but also alphabetically, and Bokuto was pleased when he found the movie he was looking for. When he put it on the three of them looked at him, confused, as the Disney and Pixar logos played across the screen.

“What’s that?” Makki asked.

“To get you in the _mood_ ,” Bokuto explained as he left, running a hand through Akaashi’s clean fluffy hair as he passed. They gave him weird looks but he thought that Ratatouille would be the perfect movie to watch because he was _making_ ratatouille. It wasn’t exactly like the movie, different vegetables, but it would still be delicious. Over the months, he’d bought three knives to leave at the brownstone: a chef’s knife, a paring knife, and a serrated knife, because the models had almost nothing in the way of kitchen cutlery. And he’d brought a lot of his own cookware since he couldn’t use it at home without a real stove anyway.

After he blanched the tomatoes he set to work slicing the vegetables into thin, even discs. It would have taken all of two minutes with a mandolin, but he didn’t have one, just a knife, and his own skills as a chef, so it took ten minutes instead of two but the slices were just as even and he even snapped a picture to send to Kuroo to show off.

He was stirring the trim from the vegetables with onions and garlic to make a delectable sauce when Akaashi stepped into the kitchen. “What’s that?”

Bokuto looked back, motioned him forward. “Dinner.”

Akaashi inched closer, taking a long time before he was close to the stove and leaning over the pot Bokuto was stirring. “Smells good,” he said cautiously.

There was still something between them, something heavy and ugly. Bokuto had never been good with arguments, liked to pretend they had never happened, and tried to do just that. “You aren’t watching the movie.” He picked a piece of bell pepper form the sauce and took a bite, liking the way it had sweated and absorbed the flavor of the olive oil and the fragrant garlic. He didn’t offer, because he knew Akaashi wouldn’t want to taste it.

“How does _Ratatouille_ pertain to dinner?”

“It’s about a rat making dinner. I thought it was awfully appropriate,” Bokuto said with a smile.

Akaashi glanced away, pulling at the sleeves of his sweater. “Don’t say things like that.”

Bokuto shrugged and dumped the contents of the pan into the blender and turned it on, effectively drowning out conversation until the sauce was nice and blended. Then as he was spooning it into a cast iron skillet, the only oven safe piece of equipment they owned, he said, “I’m sorry. For earlier.”

Akaashi was eying the cuts of the vegetables laid out on a sheet pan. “It’s alright…” he muttered. “I… I understand why you did it.”

“Still.” Bokuto set the sauce aside, reaching over and picking up a piece of each vegetable and stacking them like shingles: zucchini, rutabaga, squash, eggplant, bell pepper, tomato, liking the order of the colors they made. “I shouldn’t have been so… y’know. Kuroo tells me I need to learn to control my temper.”

Akaashi’s smile was small, but amused. “You could certainly learn to. This, uhm, looks good.” He reached a finger out and touched one of the zucchini discs. “Really pretty. Did you do this?”

“Grow them? No. Slice them? Yes.”

Akaashi laughed, picking up a piece of zucchini and raising his eyebrows. Bokuto waved a hand. “You can have it.” He was pleased when Akaashi did eat it, even more so when he seemed to like it. He hadn’t _done_ anything to the vegetables yet, but still.

“It’s weird… I’m actually… I dunno. Hungry.” He said it like he hadn’t used the word in a long time. “The hospital fed me a lot… and now I guess… my body expects it.”

“Well,” Bokuto said, laying the pieces of vegetables in the pan in a nice, orderly fashion, “we didn’t eat lunch so… it only makes sense that you’re hungry. This won’t take long once I get it all in.” He paused, looking over. “It’d go faster if you’d want to help?”

“I don’t know how…”

“It’s easy.” Bokuto told him. He reached over and showed him how to layer the slices. “They’re in order, so just do a few and lay them in the pan. Easy.”

Akaashi picked up a piece and began carefully layering them. “Oh, I ate one. Is that gonna mess up the dish?”

“Ha! No, it’ll be fine. It’s just one.”

Later, after finishing the dish and putting it in the oven, Akaashi washed his hands while Bokuto cleaned the kitchen and his knives, then Akaashi took his hand and led him back into the living room so they could watch the movie while dinner cooked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check the comments for a picture of Ole Hickory AND Cera :D


	27. persillade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops almost forgot to update this MY BAD but i was too busy having my HEART RIPPED OUT by @yikescaninot's [fic that she wrote for me and I spent a long time crying over.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18573700) It's SO GOOD you guys please go read it. <3

For dinner Kuroo was prepared to make the best damn steaks he’d made in his life. He’d read up on the reverse sear on his way home and had two of the oyster steaks resting with salt in the fridge for hours. He wished he could salt all the steaks like this a sprinkle of kosher salt on each side and rested in the fridge for _at least_ six hours. The salt was dissolved by the juices of the steak then pulled into the meat itself by diffusion, taking the dissolved salt with it, flavoring the inside of the steak the same as the outside.

As he preheated his oven to the lowest it would go, about two hundred, he called Tsukishima.

“What?” he said when he answered, sounding rushed.

“I’m making dinner,” Kuroo told him, pulling out the steaks from the fridge. “You’re going to love it.”

“You should have said something before,” Tsukishima said. “I’m going out tonight.”

“What? No,” Kuroo groaned. “No, no. Please. It’s special!”

“I really can’t,” Tsukishima said, sounding further away. He must have put Kuroo on speakerphone while he got dressed. “I’ve got to—”

“Hang on; wait, wait,” Kuroo said, hanging up and dashing across to Tsukishima’s apartment. He didn’t knock, just went inside and scooped up Madame as she came to meet him at the door. “Tsukki!”

In the bedroom he found Tsukishima tying his tie, already dressed in slacks and shirtsleeves. “I told you, Tetsu, I’ve got to go work tonight.” He turned to look at Kuroo. “You know the Michelin Guide came out this week?”

Kuroo hummed his acknowledgement of this. He hadn’t read the Guide but he probably would sometime soon. Tsukishima continued, “The Times has asked me to go to the places that got a star, new or another one, and I’ve got to get to it. An article for one is due in two days.”

Kuroo came closer, still cradling the cat. “Oh, come on. I cut the meat myself. I got all these vegetables and I’m gonna make these special sides. Please? Special night.”

Tsukishima frowned, confused. “What’s so special about tonight?”

Kuroo shrugged. “That we’re together.”

“We’re together every night.”

“All the more reason to celebrate.” Kuroo set the cat on the bed, stepping closer and pulling Tsukishima’s tie from his fingers. “Come on. I made it special… just for you.” He pulled at the knot, unravelling it slowly even as Tsukishima’s face twisted, trying to not smile, trying to be firm, and failing as Kuroo purred at him and a smile slipped on his face.

“Oh… alright.” Tsukishima finally relented as Kuroo pulled the tie off completely. He allowed Kuroo to kiss him as he dropped the tie on the bureau. “But I have to go tomorrow, okay?” He paused as Kuroo kissed him again, then said, “Why don’t you come with me?”

“Mhm?” Kuroo asked, distracted as he moved his way down Tsukishima’s throat, his hands undoing the buttons of his shirt.

Tsukishima laughed, pulling away some, pushing Kuroo’s hands down. “To the restaurant. I think you’d like it. Your insights would be nice to have in my articles. Some of them, anyway.”

“I can’t,” Kuroo told him. “I work every night.”

“Not on Mondays.”

“On Mondays I cook for you.”

Tsukishima laughed again, pulling off his nice vest.“Well sometimes we can go out on Mondays?”

“But not today,” Kuroo said, smiling. “Tonight we feast.”

Tsukishima took off his nice suit to dress more comfortably and as they were leaving the apartment he murmured, “You think if we leave her here she’ll realize we’re just down the hall?”

“Probably,” Kuroo replied, eyeing Madame as she sat on the back of the couch, watching them with wide eyes and playful tail flicks.

“Let’s try it, though,” Tsukishima said, pulling Kuroo out into the hall and closing the door as Madame attempted to follow them.

Kuroo chuckled, following him back to his apartment. “She’s gonna eat through the wall if she realizes we’re here.”

“Wait,” Tsukishima scowled as Kuroo opened the oven and put the two steaks inside. “Did you leave the oven on?”

“Yeah, it’s super low, it’s fine.”

Tsukishima huffed. “Other people live in this building. You could have burned the place down.”

“Oh, I would not.” Kuroo laughed. He came around the counter and sidled up to him, sliding his hands over his hips. “So, that takes an hour. The sides will only take me about twenty minutes.”

Tsukishima raised his eyebrows. “Seems like there’s about forty minutes of free time in there.”

Kuroo grinned, pulling him closer and kissing him again. “You’re absolutely right.”

Tsukishima smiled against his mouth, sliding his hands up around Kuroo’s neck and pulling him close to deepen the kiss. Kuroo pushed him gently backward until he could lean him down onto the couch. He loved kissing him almost as much as he loved cooking. Both things required patience, finesse, persistence, and love. It took time to persuade Tsukishima to really relax into their kisses, and Tsukishima liked to let his hands roam—it always drove Kuroo absolutely mad with desire.

Over the course of their relationship he’d found every spot on Kuroo that made him squirm, and Kuroo was usually so distracted that he hadn’t been able to do the same. Tsukishima preferred doing the touching, though.

“Wait,” Tsukishima said, turning his mouth away, groaning as Kuroo attached his mouth to his jaw, grazing his teeth along sensitive skin. “Do you hear that?”

Kuroo didn’t, and didn’t care to listen as he moved lower, unbuttoning the top few buttons of his shirt and tasting his skin there so that Tsukishima gasped and writhed under him.

“Hey.” Tsukishima put his hands on Kuroo’s head and Kuroo inched lower happily until Tsukishima fisted his hands in his hair to stop him (though Kuroo growled with approval and didn’t want to stop even more). “Stop, wait. There’s a really strange noise.”

Kuroo flopped down on top of him with a groan and Tsukishima shoved him off the couch as he sat up. On the floor, Kuroo sighed, then he too heard the noise. A strange, insistent tapping. “What is that?” he asked, dumbfounded.

“I don’t know…” Tsukishima sat up, looking around as if for a fire hazard. “Oh—oh no! Oh, my god. Kuroo! Jesus.” He leapt up, throwing himself over the arm of the couch and racing to the balcony door. Kuroo was up in an instant, right behind him, not sure what the problem was but knowing that it was his house and, like primitives of old, he had to protect his cave.

Tsukishima threw open the sliding door and ducked, Kuroo instinctively looked out, ready to throw the closest object at hand (unfortunately it would have been the book Tsukishima had bought him at the Met) but he saw that it was only Madame Cera, pawing at the door to be let in. Tsukishima had picked her up, for which she yowled at him, and he turned in horror to Kuroo. “Did you open the patio door at my apartment?”

Kuroo blinked, dumbfounded. “No. I went straight to your room.” He went over, reaching to pet Madame, and she batted playfully at his hand with her paw, eyes narrowing as she purred. “How’d she get over here?”

“She must have opened the door,” Tsukishima muttered, glaring at the cat. “Clever little…” but he didn’t finish the sentence, instead dumping her in Kuroo’s arms when she twisted, trying to claw at his shirt.

“Our cat is some sort of magical creature.”

“Or demon spawn incarnate.” Tsukishima rolled his eyes, sighing and buttoning up a few of his buttons on his shirt. Kuroo pouted at the loss, but then his stomach growled and he remembered he was supposed to be making dinner. “Here,” he said, putting Madame on the floor. “Will you heat up her food? There’s still some in my fridge. I’ve got to start on the rest of the meal.”

He spent the next few minutes getting everything out: potatoes, green beans, butter (homemade, of course), garlic, the freshest block of parmesan cheese he could find, and a handful of other spices he planned to use. Before long the fragrant smells of cooking vegetables filled the apartment. Tsukishima stood at the island talking to him, telling him of the restaurants that received stars and which ones he was excited to go to. He’d decided to go to some of the more affordable places, too.

“Why do you want me to go?” Kuroo asked as he pulled the steaks out of the oven. He poked one with a knuckle and grinned: just under mid-rare. Perfect.

“You’ve got a unique perspective. Plus, you don’t know many chefs here. The culinary community is very welcoming—you could stand to meet them. Go out and eat at their restaurants. Build a support system. Support others.”

Kuroo shrugged. “I mean I’m not against the idea, I just don’t have the time.”

“You should make the time,” Tsukishima pointed out, reaching into the pan to pluck out a green bean from the sauté pan. “Start with Mondays. Come out with me. Not only would it be on the Times’ dime, but it could double as a date night.”

“Date night?” Kuroo glanced at him, amused.

“Of course.” Tsukishima smiled back. “Shouldn’t we be going on dates? We are dating.”

“I thought we were having dates?” Kuroo said, baffled. “I slave over a stove for you almost every day of the week and—”

“Oh, hush up,” Tsukishima snapped, with a laugh, playfully smacking his arm. “You love cooking and you’d do it even if you didn’t work twelve hours a day.”

Kuroo smiled back. “You’re not wrong.” He held the back of his hand over the cast iron skillet, felt the heat radiating off of it. He took a few drops of water and dropped them in the pan where they dissolved almost instantly.

“That’s hot,” Tsukishima pointed out.

“Gonna get a bit smokey,” he told him as he picked up one of the steaks with tongs and set it into the pan. The sound was high and loud, the distinctive _skkkkkhhhhhhhssss_ of a piece of meat hitting high temperatures.

Tsukishima took a step back as pale smoke began to rise. Kuroo looked back at him, glancing at his watch and checking the time. Exactly forty five seconds it had to sear. Each side. “Do you know what searing is?”

Tsukishima raised his eyebrows. “Browning meat?”

“Yes. It’s also called the Maillard reaction. _Louis-Camille Maillard_ , a French chemist from 1912. It’s a complicated process involving chemistry… the science of cooking. The high heat breaks down fat proteins and simple sugars, rearranging them until they’re _super_ yummy.”

Tsukishima was watching the steak, then glancing up at the smoke detector nervously. “Oh? That’s neat.”

“Yeah, but it’s more complicated than that, obviously. The molecules will keep reacting as long as it’s on the heat, over and over again, making themselves into more and more complex molecules. The reactive sugar group reacts with the amino acids in the meat—but since the meat is dry and the pan is hot it creates this alkaline environment and the amino groups won’t neutralize. This is flavor.”

He took the tongs and flipped the steak over, revealing a crust that was a beautiful golden brown, crispy to the touch (if he bothered to touch it, but he wouldn’t since it was amazingly hot at the moment), and letting off a fragrant and warm scent that made them both lean over the pan to see it better.

“You sure it’s not smoking too much?”

“It’s smoking just the right amount, I promise.” He glanced at the clock again, counting the seconds. “Doesn’t it smell good?”

“Mhm-hmm,” Tsukishima agreed.

“Aren’t you glad you let me cook instead of going to some silly restaurant?” Kuroo grinned back at him.

Tsukishima rolled his eyes, but smiled. “Yes. I suppose I am.”

“All we need now is the wine,” Kuroo said, turning to kiss his cheek. “Go pick one out.”

Tsukishima raised his eyebrows. “It’s still padlocked.”

Kuroo grinned. “The passcode is Madame’s birthday.”

Tsukishima squinted at him. “How do you know her birthday?”

“It’s on that pamphlet you’ve got on your fridge. The one from the shelter?”

Tsukishima shook his head. “You’re incorrigible. I’m picking an expensive bottle.”

Kuroo laughed, taking the steak off the pan and setting it to rest so he could sear the other one. He was pleased with his dish: perfectly seared steak, roasted parmesan potatoes, and sautéed green beans with garlic and olive oil. Simple. Delicious. He munched on a green bean while he watched Tsukishima rifle through the wine case, picking which would go best with the steak. Maybe date night _would_ be a good idea? He’d think about it. He didn’t like sharing Tsukishima with other chefs, but that was a part of his job. And if Kuroo could spend more time with him and help him make his job easier… shouldn’t he do it? Besides, Tsukishima would always be coming home to _his_ table.

The sound of the wine being uncorked made him look up. “Find one?”

“Yes, a cabernet sauvignon.”

“Oh, good choice. Let’s share a glass while the meat rests.”

 

* * *

 

Bokuto sat on the old, rusty iron chair on the brownstone patio, inhaling smoke and trying not to hate himself for how much he needed it. The leaves had begun to fall and instead of patches of green in the tiny yard it was a colorful haze of orange and brown and red. He had the thought that he could set up a barbecue pit out here, or get a nice grill, or a smoker. Something fun.

The ratatouille had gone over well, even though the way that Mattsun and Makki had ostensibly _not_ watched Akaashi eating the portion he had spooned out of the dish only emphasized how much they had been watching him. Akaashi had eaten more than Bokuto had thought he would, which both pleased and worried him, because Akaashi hadn’t seemed very happy about the fact that he was hungry. They’d spent much of the meal talking about the books Bokuto had bought, and Makki had marked recipes that he _needed_ Bokuto to make, ones he wanted him to make, ones he thought he would hate, and so on, until every recipe had been marked in some way or another in _Mastering the Art of French Cooking._ French cooking was really Kuroo’s speciality, but Bokuto could follow a recipe and Makki told him he should do the _Julie & Julia_ challenge.

“What’s that?” Bokuto had asked.

Makki, sucking sauce off his spoon, had responded, “You work your way through this cookbook in a year. Didn’t you see that movie?”

Bokuto had laughed. “No? That’s a lot of recipes. I have a full time job. I’m not going to do that.”

Then Makki had declared it very sad that Bokuto had never seen the movie and said they should watch it before bed, but Mattsun had saved them all by declaring he had other plans for the night and told Makki they would watch it later if Bokuto had time.

He knew he needed to go back inside—he had dishes to wash, because if he didn’t no one else would do them (the models were strangely messy people when it came to things that mattered, he’d found, even though Makki liked to clean things that didn’t matter, like the handrail to the stairs, doorknobs, and the baseboards of the walls); he had to wash his own clothes in the tiny laundry room upstairs at some point; he would have done the model’s laundry too except last time he’d tried Mattsun had yelled at him for ruining something that wasn’t supposed to be put in the dryer; he had to take over Akaashi watch from Mattsun, too. They’d silently agreed to not leave him alone if it could be helped, not until they knew for sure what he would do once left to his own devices.

He pulled the burning smoke into his lungs again, the last of the evening unless Akaashi fell asleep before him. He stood, dropping the end in a container he’d brought for this very reason, realizing he needed to empty it, and thinking he’d take the trash out next time he left. When he went back inside he stopped by the kitchen to eat another spoonful of the ratatouille—it wouldn’t keep well, and already the vegetables were beginning to get soggy. He was already considering breakfast even as he put all the dishes in the sink, maybe french toast, since the models always seemed to have bread just this side of being overly stale.

“Bo?” Akaashi asked as he poked his head into the kitchen. “Come on, let’s go to bed.”

Bokuto looked back, smiling. “It’s early, are you sure?”

He made a face of consternation. “The hospital stopped visiting hours early, and I always ended up going to sleep because there was nothing _else_ to do so… I’m actually quite tired.” He paused, sighing. “I mean, you don’t have to. I’m sorry. I know you and your cryptic sleep schedule are probably hours from actual sleep.”

Bokuto dried his hands on a towel, shrugging. “No, we’ll go up. Kuroo tells me I should sleep more.”

Akaashi laughed softly. “And yet from what you’ve told me he’s just as bad as you.”

“Sometimes worse,” Bokuto said, coming over to him and taking his hand. “You liked the ratatouille?”

“Yes,” Akaashi admitted with a smile. “It was really good, actually. I’d forgotten how much I liked tomatoes.”

Bokuto smiled back, pleased as he always when Akaashi liked his food. “Good. I’m glad.”

“Come on,” Akaashi said, pulling him through the house and to the stairs. Bokuto saw Mattsun look up from the couch, notice that Bokuto was back, and settle down to watch whatever movie Makki had put in for them. Upstairs in his room, Akaashi looked around again, still dismayed at his room having been cleaned, and sat heavily on the bed, sighing. Bokuto stood beside him, putting a hand on the back of his neck and stroking the hair at the back of his head.

“It’s okay,” Bokuto said. “You can dirty it up in no time.”

Akaashi rolled his eyes, a smile playing at the corner of his lips, and shook his head. “Thanks for your support,” he said sarcastically.

“No problem.” Bokuto sat beside him, taking his hand and brushing his fingers over his arm. Akaashi watched his fingers, then reached over and touched the tip of his own to Bokuto’s. Bokuto turned his hand and Akaashi explored the scars and calluses on his palm. He’d done that ever since Bokuto had known him, fascinated at the plethora of them since he himself didn’t have any permanent scars… not visible ones, anyway. “You wanted to go to bed?”

Akaashi shrugged. “I’m just… tired.” He pulled his hand away, going to his closet and hating how it’d been reorganized and spending several ranting minutes finding his pajamas tucked into small plastic tubs in the corner before he could change. He said to Bokuto, “Why don’t you change, too? We’ll be more comfortable, at least.”

Bokuto grimaced, remembering his hasty extraction of the small stock of clothes he’d kept here. “I… I don’t have any clothes here anymore.”

Akaashi looked confused, going to the dresser and opening the drawer he’d cleaned out for Bokuto and finding it filled with socks. He turned and frowned at him. “What happened?”

“Ah… well, when you told me to leave…”

“Oh.”

Bokuto shrugged. “It’s fine, I can sleep in anything. And anywhere, really.” He held out his arms. “Come on, I’ll tell you a story.”

“A real story?” Akaashi asked as he came and let Bokuto take him in his arms, pulling him down and tugging the blankets up over them. He buried his face in Bokuto’s shoulder as Bokuto laid his cheek on his hair.

“All my stories are real,” Bokuto told him, closing his eyes and inhaling the soft scent of him. Something clenched in his chest, and his arms tightened a bit in a hug before he could stop himself. “I missed you,” he whispered, suddenly overwhelmed by the emotion. Being able to hold him again, it was almost too much all of a sudden.

Akaashi pressed himself to Bokuto’s side, his fingers slipping up under his shirt and pressing to his stomach. “I saw you everyday but… yeah. I missed you too. I missed this.”

“Your personal heater?”

Akaashi laughed, laying his cheek on Bokuto’s chest. “Yeah, Kou, that’s it.”

“So,” Bokuto began, settling down, “did I tell you about the new way Kuroo is punishing the servers for fucking up tickets or not calling positions or anything like that?” Akaashi looked up at him, confused, so he explained: “Like if they put the ticket in wrong or write it down wrong. Or write it so badly that Kuroo can’t read it. That really pisses him off. Or if they’re getting something from the walk-in or something and don’t call ‘corner’ or ‘behind’ when they’re walking while we’re cooking and something get spilled. Happens more than you think. Or if they come in and say _oh, it’s hot in here_ cause—fuck yeah it’s hot, it’s a kitchen, and they’re not even balls against the grill so fuck them.”

Akaashi giggled. “You don’t like the servers?”

“Eh, sometimes. It’s such a different world from behind the line and some of them act like our jobs are easy.”

“They could try it, sometime.”

“No,” Bokuto said firmly. “Absolutely not. They’d burn down the joint.” He thought a moment, tugging at the tail of Akaashi’s shirt, careful not to pull it up. “The servers at the restaurant are better than a lot of the ones I’ve worked with, honestly. Oikawa’s a shit but he’s good at keeping them in line. And Saru’s been doing it for _years_ , almost as long as I’ve worked in kitchens, so he’s got a sense of professional pride. The others are sort of … eh, off and on I hate them.”

“So, what does your boss do?”

“Hm?”

“To punish them for these things.”

Bokuto looked down at him, then remembered that he had been working to a point earlier before he’d gotten on a tangent. “Oh, oh, oh. So he got a big jar and slapped a sign on it: _Server Fuck Ups._ And at first the servers just sorta laughed it off, but last night this new girl didn’t pay attention and took the wrong plate from the window and we had to refire _two_ tables. Hoo-boy, you don’t know mad till you make Kuroo mad. He pulled her aside and told her that she owed the bucket an _appropriate amount_ and if she didn’t pay she’d be out of a shift next week. She paid, obviously.”

Akaashi laughed. “Really?”

“Oh, yeah. And when Oikawa scribbled something during a rush Kuroo made him rewrite every one of his tickets and told him he better take a penmanship class. Then he made him pay and Oikawa was even less graceful about it than the girl was. Throwing money in like he was paying strippers.” Akaashi was giggling again, and Bokuto loved that sound more than almost any other, so he continued: “And one guy came in kitchen _backwards_ for some fuck all reason, and knocked into Saru and he dropped an entire table. Kuroo made that kid pay ten bucks for each plate. The bucket is right on the pass so everyone can see it and the kid’s face was _so red_ not only because he knew he fucked up, but cause he didn’t have enough cash and he kept having to come back when he’d get tips from the customers and give more until he’d paid his debt off.”

“But he did it?”

“Oh, yeah, you don’t fuck with Kuroo.”

“And what do you guys do with the money?”

“It either goes in the Lev Pool or Kuroo divvies it up at the end of the night for all of us.” Bokuto laughed, then suddenly gasped so loud Akaashi startled in his arms. “Oh my _god_ did I tell you about our pastry chef?”

“The little one?”

“Yes, but don’t say that to his face, either. Well, apparently he and his _demi_ are—”

“His what?”

“His, uh, apprentice, I guess. The guy that works in the pastry shop with him. So, apparently, they’re _insane_ cause they decided that they’d have a nice romp in the basement during lunch last week.”

Akaashi’s eyes widened and he pulled away to lay back, covering his mouth with his hands. “No,” he gasped. “We had servers do that at the bar before.”

“Yeah, but did your new, innocent, very easily disturbed barman catch them midway through?”

“Oh my god!” Akaashi shrieked a sudden laugh. “No!”

“Well, ours did. Poor little Hinata was red in the face the whole day. Couldn’t come in the kitchen at all.”

Akaashi giggled. “You said he was really young?”

“Well, no. He’s only a few years younger than me but he acts a lot younger. Not immature, but just… I dunno, Keiji, he’s young.”

“Mhm… well, working in a kitchen will make you grow up fast.”

Bokuto grinned, rubbing his hand over Akaashi’s hair. “That’s very true. When I was just a kid I was working in a slummy kitchen as a dishwasher. Satan’s Asshole, the dish pit was called in that place.” Akaashi’s nose scrunched in disgust and Bokuto laughed, tugging gently on his hair. “You don’t know the half of it. So, I was, oh, fourteen, fifteen? Working in this place, I was treated like shit by servers and kitchen staff. On my first day, mind you I’d never done anything in a restaurant other than eat in one, so there I was, deep in Satan’s Asshole”—Akaashi dropped his head into Bokuto’s chest to wheeze a laugh —“and no one told me that the handles of the pans were hot. I didn’t know! So I go to grab this one pan and chuck it in the rack, and turns out it’d been in an oven for an hour.”

He pulled his hand away and showed Akaashi an indented, puffy red scar on his palm, just under his index finger. Akaashi looked up, poking it with a finger and grimaced at the size of it. “Looks like it hurt.”

“Second degree burn. Didn’t have time to go to the hospital, even though I begged. Kitchen manager just brought me a bucket of ice once an hour. Not that that _helped_ , it hurt more than anything. I had this big bubble of a blister for weeks. It was so gross, and hurt like a son of a bitch.”

Akaashi took his hand and laid it on his cheek. “I’m sorry. That sounds awful.”

“Oh, it’s okay. I learned to keep a fat towel with me at all times to protect my hands. Or do the soft touch on everything before I pick it up.” He tapped Akaashi’s cheek with his fingers gently, like a kiss. “Like that. If it didn’t hurt I could pick it up. That’s where I got a lot of burns, though. Turns out, some pans are just as hot coming out of the rack as going in.”

Akaashi smiled, leaning into his hand. “So that’s what made you grow up? Working dishes?”

“Yeah, I see why my mom hated it.” Bokuto laughed. “It wasn’t the same, really, but still. My fingers were always cracked and bleeding because of the hot water. Especially in winter when the air’s so dry anyway. It was a miracle I ever got out of that place.”

“How did you? What was your first real kitchen job?”

“Now,” Bokuto poked his nose with a grin, “don’t go saying that to a dishwasher’s face. They’re just as much a part of the kitchen staff as the cooks are. Arguably they’re just as important as the Chef, and if they quit no one wants to do their job. But, okay, so when I went to Florida—”

“Wait, wait.” Akaashi sat up on his elbows, squinting at him. “Isn’t Florida really hot?”

“Just as hot as Satan’s Asshole, yes.”

“So… why’d you go? You hate summer.”

Bokuto sighed, laying his head back and grimacing. “I went with some friends at first for a long vacation. But I got a job and then I stayed because of… a girl.”

Akaashi blinked. “Really?”

“Yeah. She ended up being … well, bitch is too nice a word for her. I asked her to marry me, even. I was nineteen. And stupid. It didn’t work out.”

Akaashi frowned, rubbing his fingers along Bokuto’s chest, unsure what to say to this.

“It’s good, though,” Bokuto said. “I learned what not to do in a relationship and leaving her is what made me work my way up the east coast. Eventually I ended up here. And I met you.” He smiled, brushing a piece of Akaashi’s hair through his fingers then touching the sapphire in his ear and twisting it gently.

“So… what happened?”

“With the girl?”

“No,” Akaashi mumbled, “with the job.”

“Oh. Oh, oh, so, yeah, I was in Florida, it’s hot as balls, we’re in deep shit during the tourist season. Stacks of dishes as tall as me for as far as the eye could see. Our expo collapsed, cracked his head on the floor, and had to be rushed to the hospital.”

“A what?”

“Wow, I thought you worked in a restaurant. Don’t you know these terms?”

Akaashi smiled a bit. “The bar where I worked had a kitchen, but it was mostly used for people to take smoke breaks and order in take out. I think I placed all of two orders the entire time I worked there.”

“Expo, or expeditor. He’s the guy that calls out the orders and keeps everything on pace. So, ours collapsed during a rush and the fry guy stepped up to the wheel and starts calling tickets like a madman. I could hear them screaming at each other from the pit. Lots of swearing. More so than normal, anyway. They were screaming in Spanish too, but I didn’t have to speak it to know they were saying horrible things about each other’s mothers and dicks. Really funny, later.” He laughed at Akaashi shaking his head in disgust. “So, I go out, ask if I can help, since I cooked at home, maybe I could run the panini press or something, so someone could cover the fryer. The grill guy told me I could stick my dick in the panini press and to go back to Hell where I belonged. Screamed it at me, and then threw a plate at me for good measure.”

Akashi gasped. “Asshole.”

“Yeah. I mean, it was demure for the time. Really, a plate’s nothin’. I had someone throw a knife at me once when they left it in the racks and expected me to hand wash it when I had a thousand other dishes to wash that night. Wash your own damn knife, asshole. Anyway! So I told him that my dick would be the best damn thing that’s gone out of that kitchen in months and, after a nice long shout, he let me work the sandwich station. And,” Bokuto tugged gently on Akaashi’s ear stud, “wouldn’t you know it? Customers told their servers those were the best damn paninis they’d had in months.”

Akaashi grinned, twisting his head and pressing his cheek to Bokuto’s hand. “Cause you’re the best cook there is.”

“Why, thank you. Now, I thought you said you were tired?”

Akaashi lowered his head, closing his eyes. “Well… I was. I am. But your stories are so interesting.”

“I’ll stop, then,” Bokuto said, stroking his cheek as he laid down. “Sleep now… you need your rest.”

Akaashi settled down, curling his fingers in Bokuto’s shirt. They were quiet a long time, Bokuto stroking Akaashi’s hair while his breathing deepened slowly. He thought Akaashi was asleep but didn’t stop, hoping to keep him comfortable all throughout the night. But suddenly Akaashi spoke into the darkness, so softly that Bokuto thought he’d imagined it.

When he didn’t say anything Akaashi shifted. “I thought you’d be happy.”

“Hm?” Bokuto looked down, the orange street lamps barely illuminating Akaashi’s face. “What’d you say? I’m sorry.”

Akaashi inhaled slowly, seeming to steel himself. “I said… I’ll go.”

Bokuto blinked, shifting so he could better see him. “You will?”

“…Yes. I want to make you happy.”

Bokuto sighed, long and slow. “Keiji, you shouldn’t go just to … I want you to go because you … want to be healthy.”

Akaashi groaned some, not looking at him, face pressed to his chest. “I won’t like it. I don’t… think I’ll ever want to go for myself, honestly. I don’t think I need to.” When Bokuto’s face fell, he began stuttering over his words, unsure of them, “But I… I don’t want … you to leave me. I want to be happy with you. I want to be able to … eat your food and not hate myself for it.”

Bokuto kept his fingers in Akaashi’s hair. “I just want you happy and healthy, Keiji.”

“I know,” Akaashi said. “I know you do. And I… I’ll try.”

“But I want you to do it because you want to.”

Akaashi closed his eyes, looking pained. “I’m not sure…” but he stopped himself, rubbing his cheek across Bokuto’s chest.

“It’s okay,” Bokuto told him gently.

“I want to go to sleep now,” Akaashi said instead of anything else.

Bokuto nodded, hugging him close and kissing his hair. “Sleep. I’ll be here.”

“You’re too good to me.”

Bokuto chuckled. “You’re worth it.”

Akaashi only murmured, pressing close, hands spreading over Bokuto’s skin. “Good night, Koutarou.”

“Good night, Keiji.” Bokuto glanced at the clock, noting that if he fell asleep soon it would be more sleep he’d had in _months_ and wondering if that would make him energetic or sluggish in the morning. He settled down, holding Akaashi close, liking having him in his arms again.


	28. victual

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (edit) oh my goodness, I almost forgot, if anyone wants to see pics of Ole Hickory and Cera go back to the comments for 'butcher' and scroll down! They're super cute. <3

When Bokuto arrived at _je sais pas_ there was a man waiting for him bundled in a slouchy beanie and skinny jeans. He leapt to life when he saw Bokuto and rushed forward towards him.

“It's you!” The man said, reaching to shake Bokuto’s hand. Bokuto had a cigarette to his lips and when he blew the smoke from his lungs he tried to fan it away quickly.

“What's up?” he asked, confused as to why this hipster was looking at him as if he were a celebrity.

“You're the guy in the video,” the man exclaimed.

Bokuto blinked, a bundle of unease worrying up in his belly. “Video?”

“Yeah, man!” He held up his arm in an obvious _wielding a knife_ pose and stomped in an angry circle. “The burger video!”

“Oh no,” Bokuto whispered. Kuroo would _not_ be happy. “Well, uh, what can I do for you?”

“I was hoping I could get few words from you for a piece I'm writing.”

Bokuto frowned at him, unsure. “Who are you, again?”

“Oh!” The man laughed. “I'm sorry. My bad. I'm Casey Free, reporter and news writer for Buzzfeed.”

Bokuto blinked, thrown off. He didn’t know just how credited Buzzfeed was, but they did have a wide audience. He thought that maybe this could bring more revenue into the restaurant. Maybe Kuroo would even add more tables to the restaurant. It could be a win-win for everyone, if done correctly.

Except, maybe, that customer. Oh well, fuck that guy. “Uhm,” Bokuto said, sucking down the last of his cigarette and considering his options. “What do you want to know, I guess?”

Casey gestured at the restaurant. “Is that other guy here?”

“Kuroo?” He glanced at the windows, dark with privacy shades drawn down until Oikawa came in and opened them a few hours before dinner. “Yeah, probably.” The restaurant was the most likely place to find Kuroo at any time of day or night.

“Well, maybe I could talk to him too?”

Bokuto shrugged. “I can ask, sure. Come on, let’s go inside.” He dropped his cigarette and crushed it under his boot before beckoning the man into the back door. A few people looked up in confusion at a civvy in the back, but Bokuto took Casey straight to Kuroo’s office and sat him in a chair. “Mind hanging out while I find him?”

“Sure.” Casey was looking around the office as if it were the most interesting place in the world.

“Thanks,” Bokuto said, backing out and closing the door.

Kai gestured him over and when Bokuto was within earshot said, “Who is that?”

“A reporter!” Bokuto said excitedly. “He wants to interview me and Kuroo about that asshole burger guy.”

“ _Ah, non._ ” Kai groaned. “That is not a good idea.”

He deflated. “Why not?”

Kai gave him a narrow eyed _you’re an idiot_ look. “Chef does not want to be famous for”—he waved a hand wildly—“stunts. He wants to be famous for food.”

“Yeah,” Bokuto allowed, “but he can get more butts in the seats with stunts then keep them there with food.”

Fukunaga, overhearing this, said, “You act as if we aren’t already slammed every night. We don’t need help being famous.”

“True! Even better. So where’s he at?”

Kai shook his head in disbelief. “It’s Tuesday.”

“Oh, butter day. Right.” Bokuto thanked him and made his way toward the pastry shop. He tossed his bag in the locker room on the way and when he went in the pastry shop Yaku looked up at him. Bokuto blinked, stunned to silence for a moment. It was his first day back and Bokuto hadn’t seen either of them since the _incident_. Yaku flushed furiously, glared, and turned away from Bokuto, ducking his head to fill danishes that Lev was shaping on the counter. In the corner, working with some bread dough, Suga giggled at their silent exchange. Bokuto inched around the counter to the mixers and stood next to Kuroo.

“Why aren’t you dressed?” Kuroo asked immediately, looking upon his old leather jacket and dusty jeans with disdain.

“I got caught up,” Bokuto said. “Listen, do you know we’re famous?” He was pulling out his phone and opening google, pausing a moment to consider what to search, then typed: _cook knife video nyc burger._

“What?” Kuroo glanced at him then peeled back a towel he was holding over the splash guard to look in on the butter he was making. The sounds were distinctly _splashy_ so it was either just being whipped or was near the end stages of buttermilk.

“We’ve gone viral,” Bokuto said. He found a video and turned it, showing the screen to Kuroo as he watched the video.

“Oh, shit,” Kuroo muttered softly. On the screen, whoever had recorded it had began filming just as Bokuto was halfway across the dining room, and had caught the manic look in his eyes and the low overhead lights glinting off the butchers blade.

 _Sorry sir,_ Bokuto on the tape said as he got to the table. _You wanted your burger cut?_ The camera caught Kuroo’s look of unadulterated glee and Oikawa’s genuine horror as Bokuto chopped down onto the plate.

_What the hell do you think you’re—_

Behind the camera a woman whispered _holy shit_ with a giggle.

 _Well done enough for you, sir?_ Bokuto on screen began twirling the knife and the camera panned a few inches to see Oikawa and Kuroo coming out to the customer’s rescue before Bokuto turned the knife on him.

Kuroo, in real life, was shaking his head. “I can’t believe this.”

“This guy wants to do a piece on us,” Bokuto told him, grinning. Kuroo had stopped watching, looking back at his butter, but Bokuto watched as Kuroo had to wrestle the knife from his hands. It looked more violent than it actually was, or at least what he remembered of it. Oikawa went to the man, saying how sorry he was, these things never happen, what can we do to help, and the man proceeded to cuss him out, with simplicity and loudness his weapon of choice.

The video ended and Bokuto looked up at Kuroo again, grinning. “So?”

“So, what?”

“So, can we do it?”

Kuroo rolled his eyes. “I’d rather not.”

“Oh, come on. It could be fun! Tell your side.”

Kuroo gave him a frustrated look. “My _side_ is we’re a restaurant not a—”

“Exactly! Tell them that!” Bokuto beamed, practically vibrating with his excitement. “Come on, come on, he’s waiting in your office right now.”

After an aggravated pause Kuroo said, “Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

“Goddammit, Bo. Fine. Let me finish—”

“Lev can do it! Hey, Russia, come finish this.”

Lev mumbled, “I’m not _really_ Russian…my dad is…”

Bokuto tugged at Kuroo’s sleeve until he reluctantly left his machine and followed Bokuto into the locker room so he could change.

“Why do you want to do this again?” Kuroo asked, leaning on the wall and getting his phone out while he waited. He smiled at something on it and Bokuto thought that Tsukishima had texted him—anything he said made Kuroo get that dumb _I’m in love_ smile on his face.

“It’s good publicity.”

“Actually, it’s _not_. You attacked a customer.”

Bokuto tugged his shirt over his head. “I attacked his burger. His perfectly cooked burger, mind you.”

“I’m sure it was.”

Bokuto shucked his jeans and tugged on his pants, transferring all his many items from his jeans to his chef pants. “Any publicity is good publicity.”

“Mhm.”

“Besides, most people are on our side. They all can tell he’s a dick.”

Kuroo hummed again, shrugging, so Bokuto turned him around and marched him out of the locker room towards his office.

“It’s gonna be great,” he said, buttoning up his jacket. As they went to Kuroo’s office Bokuto gave Kai a double thumbs up and a huge smile, and Kai just shook his head with a grin. Inside, they found the reporter sitting scribbling notes in a tiny notebook. When they entered he stood and beamed at them.

“You’re the other guy!”

Kuroo shot Bokuto an aggravated look, but resigned himself to his fate. “Yes,” he said slowly, coming into the room and taking the man’s hand when offered. “Kuroo Tetsurou—head chef and owner here.”

“Oh, cool. It’s great to meet you! Do you think I could ask you guys a few questions?”

Kuroo sat at his desk. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

The man faltered, but his smile stayed plastered on. “Well, first, as I told him—my name is Casey Free, of Buzzfeed.”

Kuroo glanced at Bokuto, then nodded. “Sure, sure.”

“So, I just have a few questions—first, oh, do you mind if I record this? Posterity, and it’ll help with the article.” When neither of them had any objections he set a tiny recorder on the table between them. “Okay, so, have you seen the video?”

Kuroo shook his head. “Not all of it. I was there so I didn’t think I needed to.”

Casey laughed, unfazed by Kuroo’s seeming lack of interest. “Can you tell me how that whole situation came about?” He looked between Bokuto and Kuroo, leaving the question open.

Bokuto said, “Really, should ask Oikawa that—”

Kuroo huffed. “Don’t ask him anything. I’m still mad at him for doing it in the first place. He and a _regular_ ”—here he actually did air quotes and Bokuto snickered —“both decided that our menu wasn’t good enough for them and decided to come up with something on their own. And the man’s order was complicated and _specific_.”

“But!” Bokuto cut in excitedly, “I made it! And I made it well. It was a goddamn _good_ burger. I can make a fucking burger.”

Casey grinned at Bokuto’s enthusiasm. “It looked good on the video.”

“You’re damn right it did. So after making this complicated and stupid burger I take it out to him and he told me, _very rudely,_ ” he made his voice a mockery of the drunken customer, “ _Are you blind and stupid? Can’t you see I said I wanted it cut in half? How hard is that?_ ” He sat back, eyes wide, his point proven. “So you see why I had to do it.”

Casey laughed again. “And you used that knife because it was the biggest?”

“It was the _closest_. But it did look good.”

Kuroo shook his head. “Look, maybe it wasn’t the best action he could have taken, but it happened and really, the man came in here drunk and angry—he left drunker and angrier—we’ve moved past it. We don’t put too much stock in the opinions of one customer.”

Bokuto smirked. “Well… some customers… others seem to cause a _lot_ of ruckus.”

Kuroo shot him a furious look. “Don’t even start with me.”

Casey blinked and was about to ask what they were talking about but Kuroo waved a hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Well,” Casey said, “this customer, a Mr. Ainsworth, he’s gotten quite a backlash from this whole ordeal. Did you know he was married?”

Bokuto almost giggled at the thought. “And I guess it wasn’t with the hook—” he stopped when Kuroo glared at him. “The girl he was with?”

“As a matter of fact, no, that wasn’t his wife. His actual wife is now suing him for divorce and trying to take all his money.”

“Good!” Bokuto wheezed with laughter. “Bastard deserved it.”

“You don't feel bad at all for the role you played?”

“No,” Bokuto said. “Why would I? He's the one that brought a woman who _wasn't his wife_ to a restaurant and decided to make a scene. Not my fault.”

Casey looked over at Kuroo, who only shrugged his agreement and said, “I guess that's all we have to say about that.”

Casey blinked. “Uhm. Yeah, sure. Okay. Do you mind if I ask you a few other questions?”

Kuroo waved a hand when Bokuto nodded happily. “Fine.”

“Well,” Casey began, tapping his pen on his notebook where he’d jotted down a few notes. “What was your training like? How’d you get started?”

Bokuto and Kuroo looked at one another, silently asking one another who should go first, then Kuroo flicked his wrist at him, _you’ve got the floor._

Bokuto had to think back—what _was_ his first cooking job? “I think I was fourteen, honestly I _can’t_ remember, but when I was some young age I started in a little pizza kitchen in Atlanta where I grew up. They made homemade dough and my job was to scrape all the pans clean. I did that for _months._ Got really good at it too, eventually. Then I moved up to prep worker, making sauce and cutting toppings. And then the owner died and I had to leave—went to a different dive place, telling them I was a good prep cook, and I worked my way through about”—he paused, mentally counting, his brow drawing down in thought—“Oh, I dunno. It’s been like eleven years… not including this place, like, 29 kitchens?”

“Jesus Christ,” Kuroo said, awed.

Bokuto laughed. “Look, this is one of maybe four real, nice restaurants I’ve worked in. I stayed in them longer than any other. The place you found me at—I was there, what, two months? And I was considered a veteran.”

“Disgusting.”

“It really was.”

Casey blinked, a bit thrown off at their back and forth, but proceeded anyway. “Interesting—so your training was all hands on?”

“Yup! So are lots of people, though. We’ve only got, what, two or three people who went to culinary school?”

Kuroo nodded. “Lev, Yuuki, and Suga, at least. I think Kai did, but he didn’t finish school before he got an apprenticeship. I feel like there’s more, but it’s all in my notes. I don’t remember off the top of my head. It doesn’t really matter, anyway, school and real life are different. Lev’s finding that out the hard way. Yuuki wasn’t prepared for one of our first big time dinner rushes and chopped the tip of his finger off.”

“Oh my god,” Casey gasped, appalled. “Really?”

“Oh yeah,” Bokuto laughed. “He wasn’t happy. But nobody disrespects the Mandolin God.”

Casey gave him a strange look and Bokuto mimicked the motion of cutting vegetables on a mandolin.

“It won’t hesitate to cut your fingers off. Very dangerous. Respect him.”

“Noted,” Casey said, eyes wide. “So, what about you?”

Kuroo shrugged. “I spent a few years in high school in cooking classes, and for some reason we had a guest speaker and he had a friend who had a friend who knew someone who worked in a Michelin place in France—the guest speaker tried my food and said it was the best he’d had of someone so young and somehow through the grapevine I got noticed. Same start as Bokuto, otherwise. Dishwasher and worked my way up.”

Bokuto muttered, “Yeah, but you did it a lot faster than I did. And a lot better, too.”

“But I worked in places that train and teach and expect perfection. You did not.”

“Hey, you liked my cooking when I first came here.”

“And now it’s a thousand times better.”

Bokuto flushed, rolling his eyes but not denying it.

“Is that normal? Starting as a dishwasher?”

“Depends on the person and the place,” Kuroo said. “Every story is different.”

“Oh… Well, sure. I guess that’s true almost anywhere. Oh, one thing a bunch of us at the office were wondering—and I see a few on you there—are chefs and knife tattoos really a thing? Is that something you—what?” He stopped when Bokuto barked out a loud laugh and slapped Kuroo on the arm.

“Show him.”

Kuroo gave a dramatic roll of his eyes. “No, I’d rather not. But yes, they are a thing. I know a ton of chefs with tattoos. Some with knives, others with food, some just with anything they could think of at the time.”

“Most of my cook friends got their tattoos on dares or when they were plastered or high.” He turned to Kuroo. “Show him,” he said again, jabbing Kuroo in the arm with his finger.

“I’m not stripping in front of a stranger.”

“It’s just your back!”

Kuroo closed his eyes in an effort to remain calm while Bokuto poked him again and again like an annoying younger brother. Finally, he snapped, “Fine, Bo, Jesus!”

Bokuto beamed happily, saying to Casey, “This is awesome. Better get your camera—”

“No,” Kuroo snarled, standing and undoing the buttons on his coat. “I’d rather you didn’t take pictures of me. Feel free to do so with anyone else that would like it, though.”

Casey nodded, waiting while Kuroo shucked out of his coat and peeled off his t-shirt. When he turned to show Casey the tattoo that covered his spine the man actually gasped aloud. “Oh damn!” Then, with a bit more of a professional air: “Oh, wow. That’s beautiful.”

“Thanks,” Kuroo said, blushing a bit. Bokuto saw it and smirked. Kuroo saw him noticing and scowled at him. “It was honestly spur of the moment thing, and I probably should have made it smaller, but oh well.”

“It’s amazing,” Casey said. “Do you have any others?”

Kuroo sat back down and tugged up his pant leg high enough to reveal four small, neatly cursive tattoos listed on the back of his calf: _guy savoy, alain ducasse, benoit, je sais pas_. “Each restaurant I’ve worked at.”

Bokuto was a bit jealous seeing how short the list was, and thought Kuroo was damn lucky to have been able to train and work at the places he had. “If I tried to list all the places I’d worked on my body I’d run out of room,” he said, laughing off his frustrations.

They all laughed and as Kuroo dressed again Bokuto showed his two culinary tattoos, the outline of cutlery on his left wrist and the small knife collection on the fingers of his right hand. “I’m planning another tattoo, too. But this one with flowers… and a snake. For my boyfriend. I want it big, too.” He made a motion across his entire left arm and shoulder area.

“That’s sweet.” Casey smiled. “And sentimental.”

“And nothing to do with food,” Bokuto said, glancing away and shrugging. “Flowers suit him, though. Blue flowers… like his eyes.”

They were quiet a moment, but when Bokuto didn’t elaborate any further Casey said, “So, you talked about the boy that got hurt. And I see a few interesting looking scars on the both of you already—can you tell me about them?”

“Ha!” Kuroo snorted, buttoning up his coat again and fixing his sleeves. “Don’t open that can of worms. Bokuto’s got a scar or four from every place he worked.”

“Hey now, I’m not that bad.”

“Three since opening, was it?”

“Two here; the one was from the night we met.”

Casey blinked, scribbling furiously without looking at his pad. “Did he stab you or something?”

Kuroo chuckled. “No, he stabbed himself.”

Bokuto scoffed but wouldn’t allow his thunder to be stolen so easily. “Okay, look. It was a shit night, the first shift assholes didn’t prep correctly. I was _busy_ and Johnny was yellin’ at me! It wasn’t totally my fault.”

Kuroo shook his head. “Frozen shrimp. I can’t _believe_ —”

“Shut up, you freeze things too!”

“Yeah, ice cream.”

Casey waved a hand, laughing at them but also uncomprehending. “What happened, exactly?”

Bokuto showed him the long scar on his left hand, flipping his hand over to show both sides of it, long and white by now with scar tissue. “I was chopping up this block of frozen shrimp at this place I worked before I came here. My boss was yelling at me so I looked up at him to tell him to mind his own goddamn business and leave me alone, and— _blam_ —stabbed my knife right through my hand. Boss screamed at me because I wasted shrimp.”

“Oh my god!” Casey shouted, looking a bit pale. “I’m surprised you didn’t lose your hand!”

“Nah, I was fine. Shut up Kuroo,” he snapped when Kuroo snickered. “I had to finish my shift, then I went to the hospital the next day, got some stitches. Some antibiotics. Doc said I was lucky.”

Casey was staring at him like he was some sort of inscrutable, mysterious god-like figure. “You didn’t even go to the hospital that _night_?”

“No,” Kuroo said. “He thought Tylenol and duct tape over a kitchen towel was enough.”

Bokuto threw his hands in the air. “It was! Besides, we were in the weeds and two cooks down. I couldn’t leave.”

“Mhm-hmmph.” Kuroo made a noise in his throat and Bokuto glared at him as they both remembered their fight and Bokuto’s immediate evacuation of the kitchen.

“What other sorts of stories and scars do you have?” Casey asked in the awkward silence that followed. “People always like reading about the secret lives of chefs.”

“We are a cryptic bunch,” Kuroo mumbled, and no one could tell if he was being honest or sarcastic or a little bit of both.

Bokuto held out his right hand to show a small red and pink blotch on his palm. “Picked up a burning pan and didn’t let it heal right. Second degree burns usually like it when you stop touching other hot things. Too bad that’s not much of an option for us here. Everything’s hot.”

“No kidding.” Casey whispered, then gazed at Kuroo curiously.

Kuroo glanced at his arms and hands, flipping his hands over and back while he considered which of his scars were story worthy. Most weren’t—mistakes made in the heyday of youth and barely worth remembering much less repeating. But one he thought would be interesting. He held out his arm, showing a palm sized wrinkled part of his skin on his forearm. “I was about five years into my culinary career, and was carrying a pan of roast ducks—yelling _behind_ and _hot_ and all the other things you’re supposed to. Someone else was passing by and—to this day I still don’t know exactly what happened—he dropped a whole container of duck fat and I slipped on it and dropped this pan of on my arm, the juices and the breasts and the metal pan, all of it. Had a huge bubble of a burn—immediately white and not even painful at the spot. Knew I needed to go to the doctor on this one. My chef said I was needed so I had to finish my shift, every now and then replacing the cold towel I kept wrapped around it, and went to the ER after work. Treatment took several hours, and the burn took months and months to heal.”

Casey blinked between them, flabbergasted. “Why don’t you people go to the doctor?!”

They both shrugged. “Gotta finish your shift,” Bokuto said. “Injuries are nothing to chefs, unless they’re, y’know, _really_ scary. There’s usually someone in the kitchen that’s been through worse and _they_ stayed … plus, you get the pride of saying: _yeah see this shit? I worked through this shit._ And when some young ‘un comes along and gets a little cut cause he isn’t paying attention and asks if he can leave you can tell him _fuck you_ _wrap it up and back to work_. _I did it, you can too._ ”

Kuroo was nodding his agreement of this assessment. “Exactly.”

Casey was silent a moment, staring between them, mouth working for a long moment before he managed to say, “Bad. Ass.”

“Oh, dude,” Bokuto said. “We’ve got other chefs here with crazy stories and tattoos too!”

“I’d love to hear if you’ve got the time.”

Kuroo shrugged. “Some of them will like to feel like celebrities, I suppose.”

Bokuto stood, gesturing Casey out into the kitchen with them. “Hey! Tora, c’mere! Tell this guy about your oyster cut!”

Casey had followed him, having snatched up his tiny recorder and put it carefully out of the way on the counter Bokuto parked him at. “Or anything, really. Tattoos, scars, funny stories.”

Yamamoto looked up from mixing a sauce in a bowl. “You’re a reporter?”

“Yea!” Bokuto said. “He’s doing a piece on us!”

“Cool.” Yamamoto beamed. “One second, let me finish this.”

Bokuto grabbed Fukunaga and pulled him over. “Tell this guy about your hand.”

Fukunaga gave him a strange look, then looked for Kuroo, but he’d gone back into the pastry shop to check on (save) his butter, probably not trusting Lev enough to wash it properly. “Mhm,” Fukunaga grumbled, turning his palm over to show a long scar across the pads of his knuckles. “I was butchering fish. It was fresh, and packed on ice … so it was really cold.” He paused, rubbing a finger across the scar. “There was blood on the board. Thought it was the fish but, no. My hand. Had to throw out the fish.”

“Did you go to the hospital?” Casey asked, eying the long scar with trepidation.

“After prep, yes. Got thirteen stitches. It’s fine, now.”

Casey smiled. “That’s good, no lasting repercussions or anything.”

“No, just a knife.”

Bokuto grabbed a passing Yuuki by his collar. “Show him your hand.”

Yuuki pouted. “Do you have to remind me of that horrible night?”

“Just do it.” Bokuto playfully smacked him with his knuckles. “Be proud.”

Yuuki sighed, showing Casey the fingers of his right hand—one of which as cut off at a rounded, precipitous angle, the nail completely gone. “The mandolin. I don’t really know how it happened. Just an accident.”

Casey stared, leaning over to get a better look and shuddering. “Ouch.”

Yuuki pulled away, still embarrassed at having made such a simple mistake. “It’s nothing, really. You’re the one with all the crazy stories, Bokuto. What about your steak story? The one with the Coke?”

Bokuto grinned. “Oh! Yeah, I forgot about that.” He showed Casey a deep, dark red line on the edge of his left thumb. “I was deboning a strip steak and someone bumped into me. Disastrously small kitchen, it was awful. I cut my thumb all the way down to the bone.”

“Holy shit,” Casey whispered reverently.

“Oh, just wait.” Bokuto grinned like a wicked child. “I was in shock for a bit—shaking and all that. So I sat down, had a Coke, tried to stop the bleeding—”

“No hospital?”

“Not then. After the blood wouldn’t stop I cauterized it on the flat top—”

“No!” Casey nearly shrieked, face going six different shades of green.

“Yeah! I walked to the drug store down the street for more tape and gauze, fixed it up best I could, finished the dinner shift, went to the hospital after work. Want to guess how many stitches it was?”

Casey was more than green by now. “Uh… no.”

“Thirty-two.”

Casey’s eyes, already wide, almost rolled. He turned away, pressing a hand to his mouth. “Oh my god.”

Yamamoto moved closer to the small group, glancing at Kai who was watching them all with a grin. “What am I supposed to tell him again?”

“Your oyster story,” Fukunaga said.

“Oh! Yeah.” He, too, showed his scar. A small inch long T-shaped scar in the side of his palm. “I was shucking oysters at a seafood place, I had to do hundreds every night so I usually did it on muscle memory. For some reason the knife slipped on one and”—he made a stabbing motion —“right into my hand.”

“Let me guess,” Casey said, voice flat with reverence, “no hospital?”

“Nope. My Chef at the time looked at it, slapped a few bandaids on it, gave me a shot of tequila, and sent me straight back to work.”

“You people are nuts!” Casey declared. They all laughed, not disputing this statement. “I noticed, too,” he continued, reaching for Bokuto’s hand and making a motion for him to turn his palm up. Then Fukunaga, and Yamamoto. “You all have matching calluses. The other chef had one, too.”

Kai was close enough that he held out his hand to show his, too. It was a piece of hard skin just at the base of the index finger. “It is from the way we hold our knives,” he explained.

“Fascinating.” He pointed at Kai’s arm. “And you’ve got a tattoo! And an accent.”

Kai nodded, blushing a bit at the attention and showing his forearm where he had an outline of the Eiffel Tower inked into his skin. “To remind me of home. But I’m going back soon so it will seem silly, then. I thought I would be away from Paris for much longer.”

“Oh, you’re leaving?” Casey asked, happy to get away from the subject of scars. But Kai only nodded, not wishing to elaborate. “So… do you guys have any cool tattoos?”

Fukunaga pulled up his shirt to show a half butchered fish inked into his side—head still on, bones showing, with pieces cut out and labeled beside it. “My family owned fishing boats. I like fish. Work with them every day,” he explained.

Yuuki shook his head emphatically. “I don’t like needles.”

“Pussy,” Bokuto told him with a grin, and Yuuki glared at him then he stomped away to continue with his prep.

“I don’t have any cooking tattoos,” Yamamoto said, “but mine’s still really cool.” He tugged his pants off, dropping them unabashedly to show the full color tiger on his thigh. It was extremely realistic, looking like it would crawl off his leg except for the splash of every color that danced on it’s stripes. It was like a painting, not a tattoo. Everyone ooh’ed and ahh’ed over it, especially Bokuto, who asked him where he’d had it done.

“I want to get a nice one, too. I love the colors! How long have you had it? They’re so vibrant. I’m jealous. Dammit I want my new tat _now_.”

Yamamoto, grinning, told him, “It’s my sisters’s, friends, girlfriend’s work. She does great stuff. I can give you her number.”

“Ballin’!”

A door closed from somewhere and they looked back as Suga came from the locker room, changed and ready to go home for the day. He frowned at the state of Yamamoto’s pants and asked, “What are we doing?” in the tone of a mother who has come home to find her house destroyed and her children sitting innocently on the couch.

“Showing off!” Bokuto told him, waving him over. “Got any cool scars?”

Suga shook his head. “Only oven burns. I’m more careful than all of you meatheads.”

“But you still burn yourself,” Bokuto pointed out.

“Not for years,” Suga said. “The top layer of skin is heat proof by now.”

Bokuto rolled his eyes. “Fine, what about ink?”

Suga smiled. “That I do have!” He pulled up his t-shirt and coat to reveal several different types of bread laid out along his ribcage. “My favorites.” A baguette; a twisted, knotted rope-like loaf, a fancy croissant, a danish with a red jelly filling, and a cinnamon bun. All of them were drawn realistically, and looked like you could easily just take a bite out of them were they not right next to Suga’s chest.

“Oh, cool!” Yamamoto shouted.

Casey was nodding his approval too. “Very nice. I take it you make bread?”

“Mhm-hmm.” Suga nodded, dropping his shirt. “I’m here from two in the morning to… whenever I get finished. Sometimes it’s early, sometimes it’s late. Oh, if you want to talk about scars—you should talk to our pastry chef. He got his hand caught in an ice cream machine once. He didn’t know it was plugged in, was cleaning it out. Broke all his fingers and a few bones in his hand. No nerve damage, amazingly.”

“I bet he went to the hospital,” Casey said in a low voice.

Suga blinked at him. “Of course he did. He’s got a few little scars from where bone stuck out—really interesting.”

Kuroo was coming from the pastry shop at that moment carrying a large bowl of fresh butter. “He’s not really in the mood to talk at the moment,” he told Suga as he gathered several jars and containers to store the butter in. “And while this has been fun, I’m afraid we really need to get back to work.”

Casey blinked, then gasped. “Oh! I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how long it was… but, I’ve got _one_ more question. One thing people always, always, always ask is: what do chefs eat when they’re not at work?”

Bokuto got a disheartened look on his face and looked away as Kuroo shot him an aggravated _don’t you dare_ look.

“Something wrong?” Casey asked, worried he’d touched upon a nerve.

“That’s a sensitive subject for me right now,” Bokuto mumbled, not looking Kuroo in the eye.

“I like grilled cheese,” Fukunaga said happily. “Six cheeses. Lots of butter. Tomato soup.”

“Instant ramen fancied up with anything I can find,” Yamamoto told him.

Kai just shrugged. “Anything in my kitchen that tastes good. Simple, usually. Steamed muscles, baked fish, roast chicken. Quick and easy.”

Casey looked between Kuroo and Bokuto again, pen hovering over his small notebook.

“I try to eat real, homemade food wherever I am,” Kuroo said, tearing his gaze away from Bokuto. “I don’t eat fast food if I can help it, or anything that comes in a package. Cooking is my life and I’ll do it inside or outside the kitchen.”

Casey smiled. “Oh, I like that. And…?”

Bokuto glanced at the ceiling. The corners of the room. No one would meet his eye because everyone knew of his eating habits and how much Kuroo despised them. “Uhm…” Bokuto hesitated, “y’know… just anything I can find. That sort of stuff. Easy food.”

Casey raised his eyebrows when Kuroo said, “That shit’s not food. How are you alive.”

“Oh my _god,_ ” Bokuto practically shouted, not in anger but with high emotion. “Enough with the goddam spaghetti! I get it, you don’t like it! Fine—but I needed to eat something!”

Kuroo retorted, “You can stop at any sandwich shop and get actual food for the same price. It’s better for you _and it’s actually hot_.”

Bokuto rolled his eyes. “It was only not hot because I’d been walking for an hour. And you threw away my only good spoon!”

“You’re an animal.”

Casey looked back at Kai with a question on his lips but Kai said, “Do not ask. It’s better this way.” Casey shook his head, then closed his notebook. This made Bokuto and Kuroo look sharply at him.

“Are we done?” Kuroo asked, and his voice said _finally?_

“Just one more thing, I promise. Do you have any singular piece of advice you believe is more important than any other for a young chef?”

No one said anything for a moment, all thinking this through, then Bokuto said with more sincerity than he had anything else all day: “Respect the fire.”

Everyone nodded sagely, even Kuroo looked appeased, and Casey smiled at them. “Wonderful. Thank you for your time, really. I appreciate it.”

“Mhm-hmm,” Kuroo said. “Thank you. Have a good day.”

Suga moved towards the door. “I’ll walk you out?”

When they had left Kai tugged on Bokuto’s sleeve. “Ready to work, then? I’ve got to show you some things.”

Bokuto, always excited to learn new things, beamed. “Absolutely!”

 

* * *

 

Oikawa sauntered into the kitchen near the beginning of service that night. “Chef, there’s someone asking for you.”

Kuroo groaned in frustration. “Fucking _really?_ ” He was tired of people distracting him from his kitchen. “Who is it this time?”

“The chief of police.” Oikawa’s smile was broad and simpering. “Should I tell him your thoughts?”

Kuroo frowned at him, stepping aside and wiping his hands on his apron before taking it off. “No,” he said, annoyed. “I’ll be right there.” He had to make a point to be nice to police Chief Low—an old time friend of his family and also a nice person to have on his side in case of any future problems. He was the one who recognized Bokuto’s place of work and called Kuroo when Bokuto had been taken to jail and had helped keep everything about the incident as quiet as he could for Kuroo’s sake.

He left the kitchen and found himself beside the table of the chief and his wife. “Chief Low,” Kuroo said, taking his hand and plastering a smile on his face. “Always good to see you. Mrs. Low, lovely as always.”

She smiled back at him and Chief Low said, “There he is. Big time chef now. Proud of you, my boy.” He’d said that every time he’d come into the restaurant. His family and Kuroo’s had known each other for longer than Kuroo had been alive, and Chief Low had been like an uncle while he’d been growing up. Since Paris, however, they’d grown apart. “How’s your mother?”

Kuroo had to take a moment to think, it’d been a while since he’d spoken to her. Their communication wasn’t strained or anything, they were both just busy. “Actually,” he said, remembering, “she’s on a cruise right now with her boyfriend. Or beau, as she calls him.”

Mrs. Low leaned forward to say, “John, right? She talks very highly of him.”

“Yes, him. They’ve been together a long time. I think she mentioned that she thinks he’s going to _take it a step further_ on the cruise.”

Chief Low nodded, smiling broadly. “Wedding bells, eh?”

“I hope so,” Kuroo said, honestly. “She deserves happiness. Ever since dad passed she’s been—well, you know. But it’s been, what, fifteen years?”

Mrs. Low smiled sadly. “We all miss him dearly. So, dear, can we expect wedding bells in your immediate future?”

Kuroo felt his face flush. “Ah… I’m not sure. Haven’t really thought about it much.”

“Too busy with this place, I bet?” Chief Low said. “I saw your review in the paper. Good job, kid, good job.”

“Thank you.”

“You need to make sure you don’t work yourself too hard,” Mrs. Low said, reaching out and touching his hand. He tried to keep his face happily neutral as he squeezed her hand.

“Yes ma'am. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Now,” Chief Low said, voice dropping a bit, “about that other boy.”

“Hm?”

“The one in the video. He’s the same one from the incident?”

Kuroo looked away, sighing, rubbing his hands over his pants. “Ah. Yes. Bokuto.”

Chief Low pointed a finger at him. “That boy seems to find trouble wherever he goes. If you ever need a place to _keep him_ you just let me know. Got it?”

Kuroo blinked, then laughed in surprise. “I’ll keep that in mind. But I don’t think it’s anything like that—he’s just hot headed. He’s really not quite so bad as all that. You just know some of his worst moments. I swear.”

Chief Low nodded, squinting in thought. “All right. Still—if he ever needs a place to cool off I can find a nice little box for him to stay in.”

“Thanks,” Kuroo said, patting his shoulder. “I’ll definitely call you if I need it. It was good to see you.” He said, then patted Mrs. Low on the hand when she reached for him. “I’ll tell Oikawa your wine’s on me.”

“There’s a good lad,” Chief Low said, smiling. “I can’t wait to try this new menu you’ve got. Impress me.”

“I’ll try.” Kuroo laughed, stepping away and going back to the kitchen. It wasn’t that he hated talking to the customers, it was that he didn’t have the time. But as he came into the kitchen and found that nothing had slowed down while he was gone, thought maybe he was worrying too much. His team knew what they were doing, and it bothered him a little that maybe they didn’t really need him.

Kai looked up when he was tying his apron back on. “ _Ah, bon,_ you’re back. What do you think of this ravioli?”

Kuroo grinned, going over and looking at the plate Kai had done up. “It’s fine, you know that.”

Kai shrugged. “Just making sure.”

Kuroo shook his head, wiping the plate before sliding it through the pass and glancing at the tickets. “Where are we?” he asked as he took his place at the mantle again. His favorite place in the whole world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone told me this sounds like the end and I promise it's not.


	29. temper

After service, Bokuto went home—home to his too small, dark, lonely apartment. He hadn’t been home since the night Akaashi had gone to the hospital and the stale, dusty air reminded him of just how warm Kuroo’s apartment was: filled with the scent of freshly cooked foods, lemon polish, and the earthy, bright scent of the potted herbs in the window and on the balcony; or the brownstone, which smelled of sun baked rooms and hand-me-down furniture, and the echo of footsteps on the hardwood that could be heard throughout the old house. He missed Akaashi’s minty toothpaste and lavender soap. His citrus face wash. The warmth of his thick comforters, instead of Bokuto’s flimsy thrift store sheets.

He dumped his dirty clothes in a pile and thought about going across the street to the twenty-four-hour laundromat but didn’t want to sit for an hour or two and wait for them to wash and dry. He’d have to get up early tomorrow morning before work and do it—and he really needed to get back to the gym. Hinata had asked him again if he’d come back, and he’d promised the kid he’d come sometime this week and see all the progress he’d made. But that was a thought for the morning and instead of sleeping like he should have, he snatched a warm beer from the counter (having forgotten to put anything in his fridge the last time he’d come back from the grocery store, including the small carton of milk he’d purchased and was now contemplating the pros and cons of actually emptying it down the sink or just tossing the whole thing in the trash) and crawled out his window to sit on the steps of the fire escape, sipping warm, sudsy beer and smoking a last cigarette to try and calm his nerves before trying to sleep for a few hours.

Outside the temperature was steadily dropping, and he didn’t even need the cigarette smoke to see his breath or feel how the cold iron bit into his clothes. Most people hated the overly cold season in the city, but winter was his favorite time of year, the snow and the cold and the holiday season always made him happy. He knew Kuroo was already working on a winter menu, full of winter vegetables (bright beets, leafy kale, chunky potatoes, pumpkins, winter squash and leeks had all been brought up) and hearty meals to warm a body during the New York City snowstorms.

Apples had been brought up in the pastry shop last he’d heard. He knew he could make a hell of a tart and wondered if Yaku would kick him out of the pastry shop if he offered to make one to try. Pears, too, and he knew a good brûléed pear would hit the spot after a nice hot meal.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out, expecting it to be Kuroo asking if he’d made it home (since he believed Bokuto utterly incapable of traveling alone, apparently, even though he’d traveled the length of the east coast by himself) but instead it was Akaashi sending a text: _where are you?_

Bokuto was shocked, hastily calling him back and when he answered saying, “Are you okay?”

“Of course. I’m just … worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” Bokuto said, confused. He didn’t know why Akaashi was awake—he didn’t work at the bar anymore so his late nights had been steadily eking themselves out of existence since he had no reason to be awake except for Bokuto.

Akaashi was quiet for a pause, then said in a small voice, “Why aren’t you here?”

Bokuto sat in stunned silence for a whole breath. “What?”

“Well… I just thought…”

He jumped up, knocking his beer off the railing and sending it clattering down the stairs and smashing to the alley several stories below, causing a dog to start up a steady, furious barking somewhere. “Wait, you want me to come over?” he asked excitedly.

“Yeah,” Akaashi mumbled, so gently Bokuto could hear the blush in his voice. “But only—”

“I’ll be right there!” Bokuto said, scrambling back into his apartment.

“Wait, wait. Only if you want to. I know it’s a long way for—”

“I’ll be there in like half an hour! Can I wash some clothes there?”

Akaashi laughed softly. “Of course. Are you sure? It’s awfully late.”

“Yeah, yeah. I just gotta throw together a bag.”

“Okay. Do you still have the key?”

“Yeah!” Bokuto threw his dirty clothes in one bag and a pair of clean clothes in another incase he never got around to washing the dirty ones.

Akaashi laughed in his ear. “Okay. I’ll wait for you.”

A half hour later when Bokuto stepped into the brownstone the soft white glow of the television pulled his attention to the living room where he found Akaashi curled up asleep on the couch. He looked cozy and warm bundled in the old crochet afghan and fluffy pajamas, his fingers wrapped around a mug of half drunk green tea that had miraculously not spilled. Bokuto stepped closer, taking it gently from his fingers and leaning down to press a kiss to his temple.

Akaashi startled awake, drawing in a sharp breath. “Wha—”

“It’s okay,” Bokuto said, smiling, setting the mug on the coffee table. “It’s just me. Why aren’t you in bed, sleepy head?”

Akaashi reached for him and Bokuto pulled him into his arms, where they pressed their faces to each other’s necks like animals scenting each other after too long apart. Really, any time at all was too long for Bokuto’s liking.

“Waiting for you,” Akaashi mumbled sleepily.

Bokuto rubbed a hand over his back, pulling away to look at his face—seeing the dark circles under his eyes and the little wrinkles in his cheek from laying against the patterned blanket. “You should have waited in bed, silly.”

“It’s boring.”

Bokuto chuckled as they climbed the stairs to the second floor. “So you watched old reruns of the Addams Family?”

“Morticia and Gomez share a love most can only dream of,” Akaashi told him, yawning, heading to the stairs.

Bokuto grinned, dumping his bags in the corner when they got to his room and, after Akaashi had crawled under the sheets, leaning down and cupping his cheeks in his hands. “I like mine better. They have nothing on us.”

Akaashi smiled, reaching up to curl his fingers over his wrists. “Come to bed. You should sleep, you look exhausted.”

“Let me change first.” Bokuto kissed his hair before pulling away. “Be right back.” He left Akaashi in bed while he wandered to the bathroom to change into his old, holey pajamas, brush his teeth, and wash his face (a habit he’d gotten into since the CLUE movie night), taking the time to try and calm his brain of all the thoughts that still plagued him. He needed a new way to wind down after service—getting half drunk and collapsing in bed just wasn’t doing it anymore, and he’d stopped taking certain pills to get him through two and three shifts ever since he’d worked at _je sais pas_ , thinking that Kuroo would not be happy with him if he knew.

He thought about taking a quick shower to get the smell of the grill smoke out of his hair but settled for sticking his head under the sink faucet and scrubbing with a small drop of shampoo to try and overcome the smell. A hand touched his bare back and he jumped, bashing the back of his head into the faucet with a groan.

“Oh, god!” Akaashi gasped. “I’m so sorry!”

Bokuto plucked a towel from the sideboard and scrubbed it over his hair. “It’s okay,” he said, smiling. “I thought you were in bed?”

“Was cold without you.”

“I’m sorry.” Bokuto smiled. “I’ll be right there.”

Akaashi nodded, glancing over his bare torso, then his eyes travelled up to his hair, fluffy from the towel and bereft of all its spikiness. “I like your hair like that.” He reached a hand out and touched a piece of it, a fat droplet of water falling onto his fingers. “It’s nice.”

Bokuto chuckled, shifting the towel to the back of his neck. “All natural man, are you? Too bad I can’t keep it this way—what with cooking and stuff, I need it to stay out of the way.”

“Is that why you started spiking it up?” Akaashi asked, reaching out both hands to push into the hair above his ears. Bokuto closed his eyes in pleasure at the feel of his fingers.

“Hm… sort of. I also played volleyball in high school so it helped for that, too. After school I worked at that pizzeria, and a waitress there always tried putting it up in a clip.”

“I bet that was a sight.”

“Mhm.” He was distracted momentarily as Akaashi’s hands trailed backwards, spreading his fingers and pressing gently in all the right places.

“It makes you look fierce,” Akaashi told him, stepping closer so his soft shirt brushed against Bokuto’s stomach. “Even though you don’t need any help there.”

Bokuto opened his eyes, finding Akaashi’s face closer than he expected, the sharp blue of his eyes mesmerizing. He’d taken out the faux-sapphires from his ears at some point and hadn’t put them back, but their absence only made the beauty of his own eyes more dazzling.

“You see?” Akaashi whispered, tilting his head as his thumbs pressed to Bokuto’s temples. “You don’t need anything but those eyes—eyes like a predator. Lovely.” He moved his face even closer, brushing his lips over Bokuto’s, light as a feather. Bokuto felt the flutter of his long, delicate eyelashes against his cheek, his breath fanning over his lips. Bokuto clutched his hands around his towel, wanting to touch him—unsure if he was allowed to right now. He had to be careful how and where and when he touched Akaashi when they were kissing, always careful to not touch him in the wrong place or grip him too tight. Normally he was good at figuring out when Akaashi wanted to be touched or when he wanted to be the only one doing the touching—but now Bokuto’s brain was foggy with exhaustion, too amped to sleep, after almost five months of no sex—his body liked doing things of its own accord. He had to keep himself in check.

Some days were harder than others.

Like now, with Akaashi kissing him, wobbling as he stood on his toes, his lips soft against Bokuto’s, his fingers tangled in Bokuto’s hair. He carefully laid his hands on Akaashi’s hips to steady him, only resting, and Akaashi didn’t protest, indeed moving even closer so their bodies were pressed together. Bokuto leaned back against the counter, letting Akaashi press his weight on him, holding him up as he deepened the kiss and tugged at Bokuto’s hair until he groaned softly and Akaashi could run his tongue over his, warm and wet.

Suddenly, because Akaashi was capable of more than base instincts when he was kissing, he said, “Koutarou, I have to tell you something.” He brushed his lips over Bokuto’s cheek.

Bokuto had to take a second to pull his thoughts together. “Hm?” was all he was capable of.

Akaashi pulled his face back so they were eye to eye. “I’m scared…”

Bokuto blinked, uncomprehending for several long moments. Then, understanding: “Oh… the treatment place?”

“Yes… Makki and I spent a lot of the day online, looking at the ones the doctors recommended.”

Bokuto looked him over, the worry lines working themselves into his forehead and his frown, the clouds of frustration building in his eyes as he stepped back, removing himself from Bokuto’s embrace and tugging at the end of his shirt. Bokuto reached a hand out and slipped one of Akaashi’s hands into his own. “I know you are. But it’ll be okay. They know what they’re doing.” He paused, suddenly worried. “Right?”

Akaashi shrugged, his fingers tightening around Bokuto’s. “It looked like a good place, the one we picked. Everything we found online was pretty positive.”

“So it’ll be good, then?”

Akaashi sighed. “I guess so.”

Bokuto gave his hand a small squeeze and pulled it up to his cheek. “I know it’s hard…”

Akaashi nodded, pulling his hand until Bokuto let it go. “Yeah…” He stared at the ground, pressing his lips together and saying finally, “I’ll wait for you.”

“Okay…” Bokuto said. “Just a second.”

When Akaashi stepped out of the bathroom Bokuto finished scrubbing his hair dry and pulled on a shirt. He ran upstairs to throw his laundry in the washer, being as quiet as possible to not wake Mattsun or Makki since the machines were just down the hall from their bedroom, then padding back downstairs and crawled into bed beside Akaashi.

Akaashi turned to face him, slipping his fingers up under Bokuto’s shirt to spread across his stomach and rib cage. “Why are you always so hot?”

Bokuto smiled, draping an arm over him and slipping his other under his head so he could play with Akaashi’s hair. “My mom says I got all my good looks from her.”

Akaashi laughed, tucking his face against Bokuto’s chest. “Dork.”

Bokuto kissed his head, wrapping his arms securely around him as Akaashi moved even closer, tangling their legs and pressing his cold toes to his calves. He might be warm but Akaashi was always cold, and he was always happy to share his body heat with Akaashi to keep him from turning into a tiny Keiji popsicle.

“I’ll miss you,” Akaashi whispered. “I’ll miss this.”

Bokuto sighed, rubbing his knuckles up and down the places he could reach on his back. “Me too, Keiji. Me too. When … are you going?”

Akaashi’s fingers pressed, worried. “A few days. I have to fill out an online application. Get a drug test done. A few other things…”

Bokuto took a slow breath, hating that he’d be away from Akaashi, but knowing it was for the best. “Do they know how… long?”

“No. Some people only stay a few months. Some a year. It depends on… lots of things. The person. Their ability to… I dunno—accept the … therapy, or whatever it is.”

Bokuto balked at the thought: a whole year without this. If it was necessary, so be it, but he would be … lonely without him, to say the least. He tightened his arms, pressing his face to Akaashi’s hair as Akaashi inched even closer, hugging his arms around Bokuto’s middle. “You know I support you in whatever you need to do. No matter how long it takes.”

Akaashi’s voice was thick when he answered. “I know… you’re too good to me. But, you know, you don’t have to wait—”

“I love you.” Bokuto kissed the top of his head. “I’ll be here whenever you need me. No matter what.”

Akaashi nodded and Bokuto could feel him trembling, holding his breath as he tried not to start crying. Bokuto knew he had too many emotions rolling around inside him, so the question _what’s wrong_ and the statement _don’t cry_ were pointless. Instead of talking he just held him, stroking his hair and his back for a long time until Akaashi calmed down, the small damp place on Bokuto’s chest the only evidence of tears, which neither of them would mention.

“You can stay here,” Akaashi said, sniffling a bit.

“Mhm?”

“I just mean… it’s closer than your apartment. To the…” he faltered, “to the place. The… center. Facility. Whatever—and to your job.”

“Oh,” Bokuto said, “yeah, I guess. I just feel weird because of the other two.”

“They like you, you know that. Actually Makki said he was really sad when you weren’t here while I was gone,” Akaashi said, rubbing his face across Bokuto’s shirt. “We’ve got washing machines. A real shower. A kitchen. From what you’ve told me about your place, you don’t have anything there but a mattress.”

Bokuto laughed softly, less a laugh and more a rumble in his chest. “Barely even that.”

“And… I like the idea of you being here, keeping my bed warm while I’m gone. I like when I go to bed and it smells of you…”

Bokuto kissed his head again, hugging him tight for just a moment. “Alright. As long as that’s what you want.”

Akaashi only nodded, clinging to him. “Please.”

“Done.”

 

* * *

 

“You really think it’d be okay?” Hinata asked, his mouth stuffed full of dumplings they’d bought after they left the gym.

“Yeah,” Bokuto told him. “You’ve improved enough that you could easily start trying new things—as long as you’re careful.” He said it sincerely… if distractedly. Akaashi had texted him a frustrated and long winded account of the three models’ attempt at making breakfast and their loss of a dozen eggs due to Makki’s over-enthusiastic salting. He was pleased that Akaashi hadn’t protested too much at the idea of breakfast and was more amused at their failure to execute than anything else. But he hoped that they’d figured out something and had all gotten a solid breakfast. He’d had to leave an hour earlier than he usually would since the gym that he met Hinata at was all the way across the city now instead of a ten minute walk.

Hinata was still talking rapidly, excitedly, about his interest in power lifting—he’d seen people doing it at the gym a few weeks ago and had developed a sudden and _intense_ passion for it.

“Just be careful,” Bokuto repeated. “We don’t need you hurting yourself.”

Hinata laughed. “Funny, Kenma said the same thing.”

At the restaurant, Kuroo was unloading a truck of produce and Hinata jumped at the opportunity to haul heavy boxes inside, even going so far as to ask Kenma if he wanted to watch (he did, only because it allowed him to sit and work on a game design he’d been working on for a few months). Bokuto helped less enthusiastically but still dutifully, and when they were unloading the autumnal produce (cauliflower, eggplant, peppers, squash, among other colorful things) he told Kuroo about the ratatouille he’d made for the models.

“Oh,” Kuroo gushed, sounding excited, “I haven’t had that in forever.”

Bokuto grinned. “I can throw one together, see how you like it.”

“Sure. Just remember it’s Kai’s favorite comfort food, so do it justice.”

Bokuto blinked. “Oh. I didn’t even think about that.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Kuroo said, laughing. “Just make it. If you hurry, we can try it for lunch.”

Bokuto nodded, grabbing various vegetables from the boxes. “Need help putting these up?”

“Nah—send Yuuki over when you see him. He’s anal about organization by now. Thinks the dry and cold storage are his personal project.”

“Shit, dude, that works for me,” Bokuto said, carrying his vegetables to his station and spending half an hour making the ratatouille (made even easier by the presence of a mandolin) and constructing a new sauce that he thought would better compliment the vegetables he’d chosen. He threw some in a tiny ramekin that he planned on taking home for Akaashi later. And when he presented the completed dish at lunch, he waited nervously as Kai tasted it. “Well?” he asked anxiously.

“Let the man chew his food first, Bo, shit.” Kuroo laughed, watching them with amusement.

Kai smiled too, shaking his head and pointing at the pan accusingly. “It is different.”

Bokuto didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing and held his breath, waiting for him to speak more and thinking that if Kai didn’t like it and Bokuto had embarrassed himself then he could just pass out in the floor and they’d roll him under the table until the shame passed.

But Kai looked up at him and said, “It’s good. It would not be made in France, but it is delicious.”

Bokuto beamed. “Really?”

Kuroo, having waited politely for Kai to try it first, reached forward and scooped out a bite. “Ohh, that is good. If we can adapt it for winter veggies we could menu it.”

Bokuto’s chest filled with pride at his words. “I’d love that!”

Kuroo smiled. “I’ll try to get you the produce we don’t already have—see what we can do.”

“Great, thank you! Oh, and I know we got a bunch of apples in and I know how to make a great tart.”

Kuroo shrugged. “Get with Yaku—he’s in charge of desserts.”

Bokuto looked down the long table towards Yaku, who was in an animated conversation with Suga and Yuuki. It wasn’t that Bokuto disliked Yaku. It was that they hadn’t really spent enough quality time together for Bokuto to form an opinion of the little chef except to know that he was highly knowledgeable, good at his job, and that Bokuto didn’t want to get on his bad side. Encroaching in on his dessert territory (a sensitive subject between savory and pastry cooks in the best of times) seemed like a fast way to do just that. “I’ll talk to him…”

Kuroo pointed his spoon at him. “Don’t let him bully you. He’s not as bad as everyone thinks he is. Just tell it to him straight, he likes honesty and hard work and you’re both of those things.”

Bokuto shook his head. “You’ve known him since you were kids. It’s more nerve wracking for the rest of us.”

Kai laughed aloud, getting a second helping of the ratatouille. “Chef is right. Just speak with Yaku—he will listen to you.”

“Probably,” Kenma said, leaning on his hand and eating vegetables one by one from his plate.

Bokuto grumbled. “I’ll try… but if I die in the pastry shop and he bakes me into a pie you better not eat me.”

“You’re a big boy Bo, I’m sure you’d make up at _least_ five or six pies.”

“Fuck you, Kuroo!”

After lunch, Bokuto went to the pastry shop with the crate of the newly acquired apples. The bakers were standing around the whiteboard, Yaku and Suga discussing various pastries and desserts to go with Kuroo’s tentative winter menu and specials they were wanting to put out in the coming weeks.

“Yeah?” Yaku asked, looking him and his apples over with scrutiny.

Suga clicked the cap on his marker closed, sounding like the final word in a conversation.

“Kuroo sent me with these,” Bokuto said. “And— … and I was wondering if you had any ideas for them?”

Yaku moved around the tables to reach in and take one of the apples from the crate, squeezing it and considering the piece of fruit. “Why, do you?”

Bokuto hesitated. “I do, actually. I can make a pretty good tart.”

Yaku made a face. “Just a tart? Can you zhoosh it up a little?”

“Uhm… I can try.”

Suga said, “I like tarts!”

Lev agreed that he did, too, so Yaku shrugged, dropped the apple back in the crate and said, “Fine. What do you need?” By the tone of his question it was clear that he expected Bokuto to be at a loss in the pastry shop, with only an inkling of what he’d need to make a tart from scratch.

But he didn’t know about Bokuto’s education at the hip of his Grammie, the best cook in the entire world. He walked through the recipe in his head, one of maybe five desserts he could make without having to really think about it. “Walnuts, butter, eggs, milk, maple syrup, cornstarch, apricot jam if we have it, vanilla—the good stuff—and a few lemons. Oh, and a bunch of tart pans. Mini ones, I think, for this.”

Suga grinned. “You sound like a real pastry chef.”

Yaku shot him an annoyed look then waved a hand and Lev stepped out to get what Bokuto had asked for. “And you think these little tarts will be good enough for the menu?”

Bokuto chuckled, setting the crate on the counter to pick out the best apples. “I’m sure you’ll tell me if they aren’t.”

“You’re damn right.”

So, when Lev came back with an armload of ingredients Bokuto spent twenty minutes making the walnut crust and the maple custard. While the custard chilled in the cooler he had to go back to the main kitchen to prep for dinner tonight. He was on a grill trial while Kai was still there to correct his mistakes. He rushed his prep, cutting meat, making marinades, actually marinating the meat, making roulades, and various other meat and vegetable related tasks that would assure he had the appropriate amount of food tonight for service. It wasn’t hard, just time consuming, and by the time he was at a good stopping point he managed to check his custard in the walk in and was pleased with how it set.

He’d left his best apples in the pastry kitchen so he hurried back to begin coring and slicing them, and while he worked Suga sidled up beside him to help. Bokuto asked, “Why are you still here? Shouldn’t you go home? You’ve been here, like, twelve hours.”

Suga shrugged, smiling. “That’s okay. I want to know how your tarts turn out. It’s not often a savory cook makes a desert. A lot of them think it’s beneath them.”

“I like eating them,” Bokuto said, “so I have to make my own sometimes. My Grammie taught me a few surefire recipes. This is one, even though I’m adapting it for the restaurant.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, she was the one who first taught me to cook. Miss that woman every damn day.” He was quiet a moment, cutting paper thin slices of apple and setting them in a bowl of lemon juice so they wouldn’t oxidize. She’d passed away only a few years ago. At the time, whether luckily or not, Bokuto had been between jobs and had managed to make it home for her funeral. Whenever he was making a dessert, or pickles, or anything that reminded him of her and his childhood he could feel her presence right beside him and hear her voice in his ear telling him exactly what to do or reminding him of things that he’d forgotten. He missed her _so much_ and hoped that he’d done her proud with how far he’d come in his culinary career. He felt himself suddenly becoming overly emotional, and almost said something aloud to her, but instead said, “So, I hear you won the Lev Pool last week, again.”

Suga barked a high, pleased laugh. “Yup! I did. I’m on a roll. Three weeks in a row.”

From the stove top where he was making an ice cream base Yaku said, “I can’t believe you guys still do that.”

“Yeah!” Lev protested, pouting from where he was mixing something else that Bokuto couldn’t identify.

Yaku continued, “The tally marks are down to only a few a week—he doesn’t fuck up any more than most of you now.”

Suga and Bokuto exchanged looks and Suga said, “But… if we stop, I’ll lose my money.”

Yaku snorted. “Oh, boo-hoo. You can’t buy your dog more clothes.”

Suga pointed his knife at him but not in a threatening way. “Logan deserves the sweaters—it’s _cold_ outside.”

Bokuto laughed and knew that he needed to steer the topic of conversation away from the dog before Suga really got on a roll. Anytime he and Kuroo got in a texting war over which of their pets was the cutest Bokuto would either have to turn off his phone or mute the conversation until they were through, which would usually be _hours._ “He’s right, though. I say we take down the jar.”

Suga huffed. “Only because you’re tired of losing money.”

“How come I never got any money from this?” Lev asked, just now realizing that he could have been profiting somehow from this arrangement.

Yaku shook his head. “You can’t bet on yourself. It could become a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

“Oh…”

Bokuto laughed again. “Hey, I won the biggest pools when we first started.” He told Suga, “Be right back, I’m gonna go get the tarts from the cooler.” He went and got his sheet trays filled with the tiny tarts, taking a few that he’d let the bakers and Kai and Kuroo try and setting them on the counter.

“How are you going to put the apples on it?” Suga asked, leaning on the counter to watch.

“Roses,” Bokuto said, taking out a slice of apple and twisting it into a tight roll, setting it into the stiff custard so it stood upright. Suga leaned forward to watch as Bokuto took several more and arranged them around the first central roll and, after a few moments, the rose-shaped apple slices formed on the tiny tart. Bokuto brushed it with an apricot jam thinned with lemon juice so it was shiny and pretty then handed it to him. “See?”

“Ohhh.” Suga grinned, turning it this way and that. “It’s like how we make sugar roses.”

“Sure,” Bokuto said, even though he really had no idea how to work with sugar. He picked up several more slices and began making the rest of the tarts as Suga ate his. “Is it good?”

Suga looked pensive as he chewed, his head bobbing a bit. “Mhm,” he mumbled through his bite. “Yeah. It’s interesting. Kinda sweet—maybe dial back the sugar or add a bit of salt to the glaze you put on top. But I’m impressed with your custard. And your knife skills.”

Bokuto smiled. “Hey, if that’s one thing I’ve got going for me, it’s knife skills.” The next one he made the crust broke on it. He swore, then ate it himself to hide the evidence. “Oh, yeah. You’re right,” he said as he began on the next one. “It’s too sweet. Oh well, that’s an easy fix.” He made a few more, working fast and carefully to form the roses and not break any more of the crusts.

Yaku came over to watch and wait for his, arms folded and looking like he was already gearing up to tell Bokuto all the reasons his tart wouldn’t make the menu. Bokuto gave him one and explained how he’d fix the sweetness issue the next time as Yaku turned the little tart this way and that, looking at it from all angles, his face blank. Bokuto’s heart hammered nervously in his ears as he watched him try it. He held his breath while he waited for the verdict. Suga cocked his head, a smile on his face, and even Lev stopped what he was doing to watch.

“It’s not the worst dessert I’ve tried,” Yaku declared. He picked up one of the bare tarts and dipped the back end of a spoon in the custard to taste it on it’s own. “Let Kuroo try it. Then write down your process on the board and I’ll fix it.”

Bokuto blinked, then smiled happily. “You like it?”

“It’s better than the first thing I tasted of Lev’s.”

Bokuto turned to smirk at the disgruntled young pastry chef, then picked up several of them to take to the other chefs and anybody he passed on the way. “I told you I could make a good tart.”

Yaku actually laughed. “You did. I’m impressed. Now get out of my shop, it’s crowded in here.”

Bokuto sauntered out, pleased with himself at having impressed all three of the chefs he’d attempted to impress today. Arguably, the three chefs who were immediately above him in the hierarchy of the kitchen, and whose ranks he was about to join. It made him feel a bit better about hastily accepting Kuroo’s offer of a promotion, and made him only want to work harder to continue to impress them.


	30. render

Bokuto and Akaashi stood on the sidewalk outside the Columbus Center for Health and Wellness. Akaashi clutched at the tiny, antique suitcase he’d packed. He was only allowed to bring the barest of essentials: a few changes of clothes, some shampoo, toiletries… but most of those would be taken and held onto. He’d printed out two photos: one of Mattsun and Makki he’d taken from Makki’s Facebook, and the one of Bokuto that he’d taken that had so enraptured him, sitting on his bed the night they’d gotten drunk together. Bokuto still thought it was silly, he told Akaashi he should have brought a picture of them as a couple … but Akaashi had said he didn’t want any pictures of himself while he was trying to figure out how to love himself again.

Bokuto reached over and touched his shoulder. “It’s okay.”

Akaashi sighed, shifting to lean against Bokuto’s side. “I hate this…” he mumbled. “I wish I didn’t have to go.”

Bokuto’s fingers trailed across his shoulder. He didn’t say anything for a long moment, a wave of loud traffic passing them by, and Akaashi leaned his head against the crook of his chest. “I can come on weekends to see you. Well…” Bokuto sighed sadly, “Sundays, anyway. Saturdays are too busy… I can’t take the morning off.”

“Okay…” Akaashi said, taking a slow, steady breath. “I guess I’ll be going then.”

Bokuto’s heart plummeted to the sidewalk. “Wait… you don’t want me to go with you?”

“No,” Akaashi said firmly. “I have to do this on my own.” He looked up at Bokuto’s slack, sad face. “I know you said you wanted to help, but really this is the best way. This part is my fight.” He touched his cheek to Bokuto’s chest. “But I’ll need you when I leave, if you’ll still—”

“I’ll be here,” Bokuto said firmly, putting his arms around him and hugging him close.

Akaashi turned to stand on his toes, dropping the bag so he could loop his arms around Bokuto’s neck. They shared a long, lingering kiss, Bokuto’s arms slipping around his waist. “I love you,” Akaashi whispered against his mouth.

Bokuto made a pitiful sound, his arms tightening ever so gently. “I love you, too. And the time’s going to fly by. I just know it.”

Akaashi tucked his face into Bokuto’s neck. “I hope so…” They kissed again, until Akaashi was a little breathless and Bokuto was a little dizzy before he pulled away. “Bye…”

“Goodbye…” Bokuto whispered, smiling, trying to hide just how much he’d miss Akaashi. He wanted their last few moments to be as happy as possible. “I’ll see you Sunday, I promise.”

“…’kay.” Akaashi pulled away from him, picking up his suitcase and stepping into the crosswalk—not looking back the entire way… until his hand was on the door. He turned then, and he was too far for Bokuto to see his face but Bokuto made sure to smile as big as he could and wave heartily. Then he vanished inside the building and Bokuto slumped a little, leaning against the street light for a moment to make sure Akaashi didn’t come rushing back out screaming.

When he didn’t, Bokuto turned and walked towards—what? Where? Did he go home? To the brownstone? The gym? A bar? Would Kuroo welcome him? He had the sudden thought that he didn’t have _too_ many friends to speak of, not outside of work. Real friends, anyway, ones he felt comfortable calling on in times of need. He used to, back when he had a life outside the kitchen… way too long ago.Would it be okay to call Kuroo? He wasn’t sure.

At a loss, he took a long walk through Central Park, watching the horse and pedicab tours and wondering just how many hours he could kill if he did one… but the smell of horse shit was too overwhelming, and he dismissed the idea. After he’d walked around for a long time, the length of his walk dictated only by how many cigarettes he went through, he recognized how close he was to the restaurant and thought he’d take the long, tedious walk back to the brownstone. Nothing better to do, anyway.

But as he passed _je sais pas_ he saw a familiar figure crouched in the alley. He frowned, cigarette between his lips, and inched towards Kuroo, who was in old jeans and a long sleeved shirt instead of his chef clothes, and cooing softly to something under the dumpster.

“What are you doing?”

Kuroo stiffened, dropping his small plastic pint container he was holding in surprise as he jumped up. “Nothing!” Then, as he saw it was Bokuto, he huffed in frustration and bent to pick up the container, turning it over to dump the contents on the ground. “What are you doing here? It’s your only day off.”

Bokuto took a drag off his cigarette cooly. “I could ask you the same thing, boss.” He leaned sideways, trying to see what Kuroo had been talking to and saw two small glowing yellow eyes glinting in the darkness under the dumpster. “Oh my god!” he shouted. “You’re feeding the alley cats!”

Kuroo grabbed his arm, pushing him towards the back door, shushing him. “Shh! No! Okay—maybe. Just one of them.” He pushed Bokuto back until they were right beside the door, but was unwilling to open it until Bokuto had finished his cigarette, which he scowled at.

“Which one?”

“The black one. She’s really young. She might be pregnant.”

Bokuto raised an eyebrow. “How can you tell?”

“She’s all bones, but she’s a little fat around the middle.”

Bokuto shook his head. “You always tell us not to feed the vermin.”

Kuroo popped him on his head. “She’s not vermin!”

Bokuto laughed, stepping away, dropping his cigarette and stomping it out. “Just using your word, bro.”

Kuroo let him in the kitchen, locking the door behind them. “You didn’t answer me: why are you here?”

Bokuto sighed. “I dropped Keiji off earlier…”

“Oh,” Kuroo playfully popped his arm with a fist, “You lose your boy-toy and I’m second pick?”

Bokuto stared at him, long enough and hard enough and with such subtle animosity that Kuroo eventually paled and looked ashamed.

“Sorry…” Kuroo stammered. “I didn’t… mean it like that. Uncalled for.”

Bokuto sighed, rubbing the back of his head with one hand. “It’s okay.”

“So how is he?” Kuroo asked, moving further into the kitchen.

“Not happy. But getting help. I think he’ll be okay.”

“Yeah?”

“…Yeah.” Bokuto sighed again, feeling the weight on his chest settle down even closer against his heart. He already missed Akaashi. He wanted to text him about Kuroo feeding the cats… wanted to tell him about the art show he saw in the park earlier and how it reminded him of their park adventures. How the color of the sky today reminded him of his eyes. That’s the worst part about missing someone—how everything reminded Bokuto of him, and he couldn’t tell him. Especially because cell phones were considered contraband and Akaashi could only have his phone for one supervised hour each evening and Bokuto would be in the middle of service during that time every day.

“Hey,” Kuroo nudged him, waving a hand towards the kitchen, “you hungry? It’s after lunch.”

“Uh, sure.” He wondered if Akaashi was eating lunch now. Wondered how he was doing.

Kuroo hummed in thought. “We’re getting in a shipment of meat tomorrow so we could eat up the last of the duck.”

Bokuto gasped, suddenly excited. Duck was one of his _favorite_ proteins and Kuroo was amazing at cooking it. He was like the duck whisperer with a sauté pan. “Know what I haven’t had in a long time? Duck pad thai.”

“Oh, that sounds good,” Kuroo said, nodding. “I’ll make the duck. I know we have fresh spaghetti… it’s not the same, but it’ll be fine. Unless you want to make fresh noodles?”

“Fuck no, I’m hungry!” Bokuto laughed. “I’ll make the sauce! Don’t French up the duck.”

Kuroo stopped halfway to the walk-in to turn and frown at him. “Do _what_ to it?”

“Y’know.” Bokuto made an offensively fake French sound with an accompanying dirty hand gesture.

Kuroo scoffed, grabbing the closest thing at hand—the cup filled with tasting spoons—and hurling it at Bokuto’s head. Bokuto laughed, dancing away to get his pans even as Kuroo shouted, voice laced with amusement, “And you better pick up every one of those spoons, too!”

 

* * *

 

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” Tsukishima said with a smirk that made Kuroo nervous, putting away several grocery bags that he’d come home with a few moments ago directly into the freezer.

“Oh?”

“Yes, I’ve gone around the city and brought home some things I’d like for you to try and give me your opinion on them.”

Kuroo was even more nervous now. He sat on the couch with Madame while he watched the evening news. Tsukishima had been out most of the day with his friend, helping with his wedding planning, and had told Kuroo that he would bring home dinner. But now Kuroo worried that he did not, in fact, bring dinner. “What things?”

“You’ll see. Don’t you have a cappuccino machine? I thought you did—ah, yes.” He pulled the dust cover off the small machine and turned it on.

Kuroo preferred his french press on any given day. He sat up, peering over the couch and the island to watch Tsukishima expertly calibrate and set up the machine to whatever specifications he liked. “I didn’t know you could use one of those.”

“I was a barista for years,” Tsukishima said. “Some things you don’t forget.” He dug through his grocery bags, getting out an avocado, espresso beans, some milk, a container of artisanal butter, a jar of coconut oil, and several boxes from bakeries around the city.

Kuroo squinted, clicking the TV off, standing, pushing Madame to the floor as he inched closer. “What _things_ did you get exactly?”

Tsukishima flapped a hand, a wicked smile spreading on his face. “Go sit. I’ll bring it to you.”

Kuroo hesitated, wanting to see what he was doing, his stomach doing a nervous flip flop. “I don’t like that look in your eyes.”

“I’m an angel,” Tsukishima promised him. “Now go. And no peeking.”

After a long moment where he debated whether or not he was going to survive this encounter, Kuroo moved to the kitchen table, sitting facing away from the kitchen so he couldn’t even peek if he tried. Madame came to purr against his leg and he pet her while he listened: Tsukishima started up the espresso machine, steamed milk with swift efficiency, opened and closed a drawer (the cutlery drawer, Kuroo thought), and took a quiet moment to do… something that Kuroo couldn’t identify. He ground the espresso beans, and the smell of freshly brewed espresso filled the kitchen. He waited patiently, nervously, until he heard Tsukishima heading towards the table.

When he looked up, expecting a cup, his brain short circuited for a moment when Tsukishima set a plate down in front of him. On it was one of the strangest things Kuroo had ever seen. It looked like coffee, a latté, with swirling milk foam and espresso making a little spiral design, inside… not a cup… but half of an avocado. He stared at it, speechless. It was very rare that he was actually at a loss for words but now was one of those times. His brain literally went _blank_.

“It’s an _avolatté_ ,” Tsukishima explained, smiling, getting out a little notebook and writing something down, the feedback from the tines of his pen the only sound in the apartment.

“It’s….” Kuroo started, found he had no words, and closed his mouth. Tsukishima snickered and Kuroo looked up at him in shock. “ _What_?”

“An avolatté,” Tsukishima repeated. “It’s just a latté.”

Kuroo stared at the abomination in front of him. “A latté in a piece of trash. We _compost_ avocado skins.”

Tsukishima pointed his pen at it. “Try it.”

“No.”

“Please? I made it just for you.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Kuroo told him flatly, still too shocked to be anything other than disgusted.

Tsukishima laughed, loudly, capping and setting down his pen. He picked up the avocado half, carefully so as not to spill any of it, and took a sip from the end of it. Kuroo could see the skin softening and shifting with how hot the drink was. “Please?” He set it back on the plate, inching it towards Kuroo. “The Times is doing a piece on the worst food trends of the year and I’ve been asked to write it.”

Kuroo squinted at him. “It’s not even November.”

“So what? Just try it.”

Kuroo slumped, defeated. “Goddammit,” he whispered, trying to pick up the drooping fruit. He had to rearrange his fingers on it a few times to pick it up without spilling any of the latté inside of it. He glowered at Tsukishima as he raised it to his lips to take a sip. As a chef, he took an actual mouthful in order to get the full flavor of the thing, and immediately regretted it. He set it down, coughing a little, as Tsukishima laughed beside him.

“Well?”

“It’s like a colonic in a straw,” Kuroo declared after he’d managed to swallow it. Tsukishima pressed his mouth together in order not to burst out laughing as he continued: “It’s trying to be coffee, but it’s not. It’s laced with _avocado_ but not in any of the good ways. Because avocados are more about texture than taste and I’ve got gross avocado bits melted in my coffee and I’ve _never wanted that_.”

Tsukishima laughed, writing quickly. “So, that’s a down vote from you?”

“It absolutely is.”

“Great, now, you finish that while I make you the next thing.” Tsukishima stood, a hand to his mouth as he tried to hide how much he was really enjoying this. He stepped back to the kitchen as Kuroo glared at the avocado, and wondered just what he’d gotten himself into. He jumped when the blender turned on and then glowered at the mug that Tsukishima placed in front of him a few moments later.

“I don’t trust this,” he said, leaning forward to peer into the mug. It looked like coffee… albeit bubbly, aerated coffee. “It smells weird.”

Tsukishima wrote something down on his notepad then grinned. “It’s _butter coffee.”_

Kuroo rolled his eyes. “What, you just throw butter in coffee? What’s that supposed to do?” He poked the liquid, then sucked it off his fingers. This he wasn’t immediately abhorrent of for the simple reason that he liked both coffee and butter.

“No, you blend it with coconut oil, butter, and coffee until the fats emulsify.”

“Makes sense…” Kuroo allowed. “But why?”

“Several reasons, actually,” Tsukishima said, too happy, amused with himself and his cleverness. “It’s full of healthy fats which can help with hormone development and keep your skin healthy. Also the oil is supposedly good for helping protect your brain neurons from dementia. It’s cheaper than your average Starbucks, and the fats and low sugars of this drink help keep steady blood sugar levels throughout the day and decrease cravings for sugary foods and also allow for a steadier release of caffeine throughout the day—thus reducing the ‘2pm crash’ many people experience.”

“You don’t have to sound like a talk show host.” Kuroo squinted at him as he picked up the mug.

Tsukishima tapped his pen against his paper, following his bullet points. “You’re the one that asked. Now try it.”

Kuroo steeled himself, picking it up and sniffing it. Then he took a small sip, grimaced at the thickness of it, the way the oils coated his tongue. He took a bigger drink to chase the feeling away, only to choke a bit as it enhanced. He should have known. Swallowing, he frowned, smacking his lips a bit. “That’s—” He stopped, taking another drink and trying to think about the way it tasted. Not bad. Tsukishima had gotten high quality ingredients and he could taste them in the richness of liquid. “That’s actually not bad.”

Tsukishima raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

“Really.” Kuroo nodded, taking another drink. “I can see how this could be good once you get used to it. You definitely only need one cup.” He set it aside, then pushed it towards him. “Try it.”

“No, thank you,” Tsukishima said curtly, pushing it away with his pen.

Kuroo laughed. “You won’t even try it for your article?”

“No.”

“Well, _I_ like it and I plan on figuring out how to make it again, and make it well.” He tapped the table with his finger. “You put that in your article.”

“I sure will,” Tsukishima said, laughing. He stood after he finished writing and went to get a box of pastries that he brought to the table. “Now, these are all from specialty bakeries. I won’t tell you which ones, and I’m not necessarily asking for your opinion on how they _taste_ but the… overall effect and your thoughts on the _trend._ ”

Kuroo was nervous again, the coffee turning uncomfortably in his stomach. “Okay…”

Tsukishima pulled the absolute worst thing Kuroo had ever seen out of the box, wrapped in flimsy bakery paper.

Kuroo shouted immediately, “No!” and pushed himself back from the table. “I _will not_.”

“Just _try it_.”

“You go to hell,” Kuroo snarled, almost falling off his chair as Tsukishima pushed the offensive thing towards him. He glared at the doughnut that was covered in pink and silver _glitter. Actual fucking glitter._

“It’s food safe. Gelatin based and non-toxic,” Tsukishima told him, the shit eating grin never leaving his face. He set it in front of Kuroo’s chair and pulled out several other doughnuts from the box—black and purple swirls with more silvery glitter dust; one that looked like it’d lost a battle with a detergent, orange and blue and smelling of lemons; and one with every color of the rainbow that the Lucky Charms leprechaun would chase for a pot of gold at the end.

Kuroo was shaking his head adamantly. “Please don’t make me.”

“But, _chef_ , I got a whole box. Just for you. I know how thorough you like to be.”

“The very sight offends me.”

“You didn’t even give them a chance.”

Kuroo pointed an angry finger at them, the glitter one specifically. “Humans are like raccoons—they like _shiny_ things, but just because they _like them_ doesn’t mean they should _eat them_.”

Tsukishima laughed so hard he had to lean away and press a hand to his stomach, taking a full minute to compose himself and wipe at a tear in his eye. “Ah, shit. That’s great. I love that.”

Kuroo inched his way back to the table and stuck his finger in the black and purple one. “This much food coloring can’t be good for you.”

“Those are _galaxy_ themed,” Tsukishima said helpfully.

“No shit.” Kuroo tasted the glaze, grimacing. “Too sweet. I’m not tasting the ones that are mocking the detergent. That’s blasphemy. It’s a detriment to the human race and the American education system that kids thought that eating cleaning products was funny. It breaks my heart.”

“Oh, how sentimental.”

“Shut up. The rainbow bagels are boring, and I bet they taste like food coloring, too.”

“Fair enough,” Tsukishima allowed. “What about these?” Out of a paper bag he pulled a small container and opened it, letting Kuroo see the tiny bears inside.

“The fuck?”

“Rosé gummy bears.”

Kuroo threw himself back, groaning. “What is _wrong with the world_?”

Tsukishima laughed. “They’re for when you want a snack and to get a little boozy.”

Kuroo shook his head. “You’d get sick before you got drunk.”

“Well you _complement_ your drinking with these.”

“Bullshit.”

Another laugh. Tsukishima was _really_ enjoying torturing Kuroo’s sense of pride as a chef and his purist nature when it came to food. He popped one of the little gummy bears in his mouth while he stood, going to the freezer and taking out several pints of what was clearly ice cream.

Kuroo leaned back in his chair to try to get a better look at what would soon be the demise of his palate. “What’s that?”

Tsukishima dug two spoons out of a drawer and came to sit beside him. “You like ice cream, don’t you?”

Kuroo groaned. “I probably don’t like _this_ ice cream.” A small pint was thrust in front of him and Kuroo took a long moment to compose himself then plucked the lid off. It was pale white, smelled of cream and eggs, and Kuroo’s suspicion immediately jumped six levels higher. “What’s this?”

Tsukishima looked at a number he’d scribbled on the top of the lid, then checked his notes. “Why don’t you taste it and find out?”

“I’m not your monkey.”

“No, but you are a seasoned chef who takes pride in his palate.”

Kuroo pointed at him. “Don’t you throw that back in my face.”

Tsukishima snickered, held out a spoon. “Be my guest.”

“… I hate you,” Kuroo told him, snatching the spoon from him. He dipped the spoon in the ice cream and hesitated only a moment before eating it. It was full on fat and cream, then sour lemon and a thick eggy aftertaste. He made a face, pressing a hand over his mouth and groaning. “I barely like regular mayonnaise, why the fuck did you think I’d like mayonnaise ice cream?”

“You don’t like mayonnaise?”

“Not pre-made. I make my own.”

Tsukishima shook his head, grinning. “Of course you do.”

“What? Don’t look at me like that—it’s easy to make!”

“So you don’t like it?” He held his pen over his notebook.

“No, it’s got too much—I don’t know— _mayonnaise_ in it.” Kuroo shoved the container away, pulling a second one towards him. “What’s this one—this is green and I bet it’s not matcha.” He leaned down to sniff it and gagged, pushing it away. “I’m not eating this. Pickle ice cream is _too far_ and I won’t stand for it.”

Tsukishima laughed. “It’s technically cucumber juice, no actual pickles were—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Kuroo snapped, shaking his head. “Bokuto would like this, though.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, he loves literally everything pickle.” He put the lid back on succinctly, pushing it away. “It’s disgusting, really. Is there anything else?”

Tsukishima pulled another pint out of the bag. “Just one.”

Kuroo sighed, rubbing his face. “I really really don’t want to open that lid.”

“Last one. Promise. Then I’ll take you out to dinner.”

“I’d rather make my own dinner.”

“Don’t be difficult.” Tsukishima opened the container and Kuroo banged his fist on the table in frustration.

“What the fuck is that!?”

“Activated charcoal ice cream.”

“That _can’t_ be good,” Kuroo quipped, “It’s bad for your teeth!”

“No it’s not. Some people say it’s good for you, actually.”

Kuroo shook his head. “I doubt that. Not in such small quantities, anyway.”

“Try it?”

“No.”

Tsukishima sighed, shaking his head. “This was fun until you got all pretentious chef on me.”

“I _am_ a pretentious chef,” Kuroo pointed out.

“Got that right.” Tsukishima stood, packing away all the ice cream and picking up the dirty cutlery. “So—your overall opinion of the food trends of the year?”

Kuroo stood, scooping up Madame and pressing her to chest to make himself feel better. “Bullshit. Stupid. I hate them. Except that butter coffee. That’s okay. I think people should go back to nature for their food. Fresh and simple and delicious. It’s not as hard as people think to make homemade things—or even grow food! Veggies and fruits and herbs.” He scrubbed a frustrated hand through his hair, wanting to rip it out in his annoyance. “ _Ugh_ it’s bullshit how lazy people are now-a-days!”

Tsukishima nodded. “Duly noted. I’ll definitely put that in the article. Now,” he turned from the sink, looking him over, “speaking of lazy. Get out of your pajamas and put on real clothes. Let’s go to dinner.”

 

* * *

 

The tattoo parlor had lush, red walls and framed photographs of the artists work all over the walls. Bokuto leaned on the counter, trying to tell Saeko exactly what he had in his head for the new tattoo he wanted. She hunched over a large sketchbook, attempting to sketch out his idea while he pointed at certain parts of it he liked and didn’t like.

In truth it was a half assed idea and he’d told her she had free reign in it’s design since he liked her freeform, looping art that he had been painted with and which adorned her arm with the large, swirling dragon tattoo. “When are you wanting this to be done?” she asked, drawing out meticulous petals of flowers he’d asked for.

“I dunno, by Christmas? New Years?”

She looked up, eying him. “I’ve got a pretty full schedule, but I’m sure I can work you in. Have you ever had a big tattoo before?”

“Not this big,” Bokuto said, “but I’ve got a pretty high pain tolerance so I should be able to do longer sessions, yeah?”

Saeko nodded, glancing over his arm as if seeing the canvas she would be working with. Her eyebrows raised slightly, interested and possibly impressed, and she ducked her head again, sketching on a different place, presumably what would be the back of the tattoo. “Yeah, that’s true. I could get it done faster. Maybe…” Her voice trailed off as her pencil moved across the paper, drawing out the serpent hidden among the flowers.

Bokuto leaned opposite her, watching her draw for a while, jealous that she was so talented. He’d always wanted to be able to draw, but he’d never had the patience to sit down and actually practice. Then the bell above the door dinged and Bokuto turned, about to sit on one of the waiting chairs against the wall to let Saeko talk to the customers… and stopped in his tracks when Lev, Yaku, and a woman with a short, swishy skirt and a large tattoo of a lion inked along her thigh walked in. He blinked, stunned to see them here. “Yo.”

Lev beamed, carrying a few boxes of food from a breakfast diner around the corner. “Bokuto! What’re you doing here?”

“Tattoo?” Bokuto said, unable to quite place the pastry chefs in the shop even though they were right in front of him.

The woman slipped past Bokuto and behind the counter with Saeko, leaning over to kiss her cheek as she continued to draw. “Time for breakfast, _solnyska_.”

Saeko said, “Just a second.”

The woman shook her head with a smile, looking up at Bokuto with strikingly green eyes and long, mascara dark lashes. She extended a hand and said, “I’m Alisa—Lev’s sister.”

“Oh!” Bokuto gasped, taking her hand and glancing between them. “She’s much better looking than you, dude.”

Alisa laughed a high, tinkling laugh that made Bokuto smile. “I got the beauty and the brains of the family.”

Lev huffed, setting the boxes on the counter. “That’s mean.”

Yaku shuffled up beside them—looking comical standing next to the Haiba siblings and Bokuto had a staggeringly difficult time keeping his face straight and mouth closed to _not_ point it out. “I didn’t know you came here,” he said instead.

Yaku shrugged. “It’s close to his place so we come here for breakfast sometimes. Well, we bring breakfast, more like.”

“Oh, cool,” Bokuto said after a moment of uncertainty, glancing away. It wasn’t that he and the pastry chefs _didn’t_ get along… it was that they simply didn’t spend a lot of time together, so none of them knew just how well they could get along if they _did_. They were always tucked away in their pastry shop and Bokuto was practically not allowed in there at all because Yaku was afraid he’d eat all their product. He wasn’t wrong, most days.

“That’s pretty,” Alisa said, leaning close to Saeko and looking at her sketchpad. “Is it for you?”

Bokuto nodded. “Yeah, she did some painting on me back in July and I really liked her style.”

Lev looked at it too. “What’s it for?”

“Akaashi,” Bokuto told him.

Alisa looked up saying, “Oh. That pretty dark haired guy? I met him a few months ago.”

Bokuto smiled, his chest warming a little at the thought of Akaashi. “Yeah, that’s him.”

“You like the pretty ones, don’t you? I do too.” She winked, reaching a hand up and sliding it into Saeko’s hair gently.

Yaku was giving Bokuto a narrow eyed, quizzical look. Bokuto wasn’t exactly open about Akaashi’s situation at work, but he thought that maybe Yaku had some idea simply because he and Kuroo worked closely together and Yaku had been there when Bokuto had rushed out the night that Akaashi had been taken to the hospital. He knew _something_ was going on with Bokuto and Akaashi, but the extent of it Bokuto had no idea how much he knew.

And he wasn’t inclined to tell him.

“So,” he said to Saeko, who was still engrossed in her drawing, “do you need anything else from me right now?”

“Nope. I’ll work on this and send you pictures every few days until it’s done. Then we’ll make the appointment. Mondays are best for you?” Saeko glanced over at Alisa, nodding at the counter.

“Yeah, that’d be great if you can manage it.”

Alisa pulled a large book from under the counter, a giant date book by the looks of it, and opened it to the month. “Mhm… might be really early or really late,” she said, running her finger over the scribbled notes.

“That’s fine, I can do that.”

“Then we’ll be in touch.” Alisa smiled at him.

“Guess… I’ll see you at work?” Bokuto asked, glancing at Lev and Yaku.

“Sure,” Lev said, smiling happily and waving. Yaku didn’t say anything, only opened his food and began digging through it with a fork.

Bokuto waved awkwardly at them as he left, wondering… if they weren’t at _je sais pas_ when he got there, could he go in the pastry shop and steal a few danishes? Yaku made the best damn danishes and never let Bokuto have any. He had a few hours until he needed to be at work, technically… but Kuroo was always there early, and maybe he’d let Bokuto in. Then all he had to do was slip in there for _two seconds…._ it would be easy. And it would be delicious.

He could be a spy! Giddy at the thought, he quickened his step and hurried to the nearest subway station.


	31. bordelaise

Akaashi sat on what was arguably the most comfortable spot in the large room where the clients were corralled in for group therapy sessions, guest speakers, various therapeutic art classes, and anything other than meal times where they needed to be in a room together. There were lots of comfortable couches and armchairs, a mishmash of tables and chairs, and one large window that held fluffy cushions and a sun warmed window seat that overlooked the street far below that he currently occupied. He pressed his cheek against the cool glass, gazing off in the direction of where he knew Bokuto was working. It was Saturday evening, they’d be just starting dinner service. He sighed, then hastily wiped away the fog on the glass.

He’d been here almost a week. It felt both longer than anything he’d ever done… and like no time at all had passed. Today had been the first day he’d awoken (early—five am) and not immediately reached for Bokuto’s warmth, only to find him missing and being thrown in to a spiraling sadness that would last most of the day, only to start over again the next morning. Instead he’d laid in bed as long as he could, until the staff counselor had come to get him and practically drag him out of bed to start the day.

The routine was a simple one, if tedious at times—and the days seemed to drag. After morning weigh-ins (standing in his skivvies on a scale, shivering, not allowed to see his weight and having to answer basic and boring questions on how he _felt_ that morning), he would get ready for the day then was herded to breakfast with the rest of the men in the Center. This was both the easiest and hardest meal for Akaashi. They ate dinner relatively early in the evening and were expected to go to bed early, too, so the eight or nine hour difference between dinner and breakfast was usually supplemented with sleep. Akaashi, however, had an uncommonly difficult time falling asleep alone under cold sheets surrounded by four other men who were all sleeping soundly. So he lay awake for hours, feeling the food he’d managed to get down rumbling and digesting in his body.

The unavoidable fact that he was expected to eat every day—three meals and three snacks—only seemed to make him hungrier. After years and years of ignoring his hunger, being forced to confront it now was proving exceedingly mind-boggling. It only served to make him feel like his body, now allowed to eat, didn’t want to stop when a meal was placed in front of him… even if his own desire to eat didn’t match his body’s... especially because those meals weren’t Bokuto-quality.

They would have any number of activities after breakfast, and sometimes they’d even go on day trips. Snack, lunch, group therapy, dinner, free time, bed. Everything was structured, down to the minute. They were watched constantly. The counselors were nice, most of them anyway, and Akaashi hated when he had thoughts of trying to sneak away or tried to hide food. Because he really, _really_ did want to get better. But it was harder than he’d expected it would be.

“Keiji?”

“Mhm?” he grunted automatically, not really able to pull his attention from his reverie though, wondering if he could see the statue of Columbus that was near the restaurant so he could better envision the layout of the street.

“Keiji,” the group leader said again, gently but more firmly.

Finally, Akaashi managed to focus on him and the other twelve men. “I’m sorry?”

Richard smiled. He had a face that was open and honest, one that you’d want to trust. A face that could sell you an entire encyclopedia set, explain the six o’clock news, or announce his candidacy for President and his desire to right the many wrongs of the country. “Where were you just now? Where did you go?” he asked gently.

Akaashi glanced around, the gazes of the others making him uncomfortable. He looked away, back out the window. “I was just trying to see the Columbus statue.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

He took a long moment to answer. “My boyfriend works in a restaurant over there.”

Someone tittered at that but Akaashi didn’t look to see who it was. Richard asked, “Oh? What does he do?”

“He’s a chef.”

Another guy said, “That’s totally weird. I couldn’t do that.”

“Michael,” Richard scolded firmly, then to Akaashi: “Why are you thinking about him?”

Akaashi shrugged, tugging on the cuffs of his sleeves. “I miss him. We don’t get to talk at night because he’s always working during phone time.” He looked out the window again. “And… while the food here is fine…” He felt the corners of his mouth pull up in a small smile. “ _His_ food is amazing.”

A lanky boy, barely eighteen, named Cal looked impressed. “Where he work?”

“It used to be some French place… but it’s something else now, maybe? Maybe not.” He struggled to remember the name. “The name is in French, though. _Je…. says?_ Something. I don’t know.”

Cal shook his head. “Oh. I don’t know no French place.”

“Does he cook for you?” Richard asked in the silence that followed.

“He did before I came here. He… he made this thing … it had all sorts of vegetables and this… tomato sauce. It was delicious. I remember that I wanted to sneak downstairs after he’d gone to bed and get more. But… obviously, I didn’t.”

“Do you wish you had?” Richard asked. “Thinking back on it now, would you do things different? Or if you had the opportunity tomorrow, would you eat more?”

“I… certainly miss his cooking…” Akaashi mumbled. The whole idea of a _second serving_ still messed with his brain, though. The facility tried to teach them a different way of thinking about food—of finding things they _liked_ instead of things that were _safe_ , things that _they wanted_ instead of what their ED wanted. Their meals were planned out a week in advance and Akaashi knew from listening to some of the others talk that many of them had to carefully prepare themselves for the day’s menu… Akaashi himself included. “But,” he said, “I don’t… think I could do that.”

“Yet,” Richard smiled, encouraging.

Akaashi stared at him, wanted to glare at him. It had only been a week—he wasn’t used to talking honestly to anyone about the thoughts in his head. It was especially hard in Group… but the individual therapist made it easier, even though Akaashi was still growing to trust her. They’d yet to breach anything but the basics—not for her lack of trying, but Akaashi’s inability to talk about the darkest things in his head. “Sure,” Akaashi mumbled. “Kou says that he’ll cook for me when I get out of here.”

“Graduate,” Richard insisted, using the term for successfully completing the program at the Center.

But Akaashi thought that was dumb. Maybe if he ever did actually _graduate_ it wouldn’t feel that way. But he was too far away from that possibility to think of it positively. “Our roommate, my friend Makki, tells me he’s brought home a mountain of cookbooks and spends hours going over them, trying to find things that look good. He’ll eat anything though, so I’m curious to see what he’ll pick.” From what Makki had told him during their phone calls in the evening the cookbooks weren’t just the typical _health_ books, but cuisines from all over the world, from famous restaurants and chefs, so many books that he worried the kitchen table was going to break under the weight.

“If he’s a chef why does he need books to tell him what to cook?” Michael sneered. He was even newer to the Center than Akaashi was, today was only his third day here, and he had been forced here against his will so he hadn’t been very nice to too many people. From the rumors going around he was also recovering from a messy drug addiction, too, so that made his mood even more sour.

Akaashi frowned at him. “He’s expanding his horizons.”

Michael snorted, reeling back for some snappy, haughty comeback, but Richard waved a hand at him and said over him, “We’re all nice to each other here. We support each other.”

Akaashi and Michael both rolled their eyes while several people tried not to laugh. Richard was nice but sometimes he was _too nice_.

“Well, that sounds lovely,” he said. “It sounds like he’s planning something special for the two of you to share.”

Akaashi looked down, playing with his fingers, missing the way Bokuto’s fingers fit against his. “Every day with him is special.”

 

* * *

 

It was half an hour past time for Bokuto to be there. Akaashi sat on the couch, curled up, hugging his knees and hoping he wouldn’t cry in front of the other clients and their visitors. He’d like to leave… but the facility was short staffed today, and there wasn’t enough people to stay with him and make sure he didn’t hurt himself, compromise his treatment, or break any of the rules. And there were a lot of rules. More than the hospital.

Forty-five minutes, his watch told him. Did Bokuto decide not to come? Akaashi wouldn’t have known—he hadn’t talked to Bokuto at all since they’d parted on the street last week. Not _really_ , anyway. They’d played a long and boring game of text tag—Bokuto sending sporadic messages throughout the day, telling him he missed him, hoped he was well, little things he found or pictures he thought Akaashi would like; and Akaashi had answered them every evening in one big, mass text. It was awful… not being able to really talk about the things that mattered. Bokuto felt so far away from him.

He buried his face in his knees, wondering if he could beg one of the staff to walk with him, take a lap around the little garden out back. They’d do special things for Michael and his stupid drug problems; or Cal, who would periodically make snide and self deprecating remarks about ending his life that got him in trouble and had him spending more time with the therapist than any other client at the moment. But Akaashi was just an average client, no special treatment needed, so they probably would make him stay here, tell him they would only go if it was really an emergency. _Is this an emergency?_

But that would also dictate a trip to the therapist. And Akaashi didn’t want to make that trip until it was scheduled.

“Keiji,” one of the staff counselors said, standing over him. “There’s a big guy here to see you.”

Akaashi looked up, his body going tense—then all his breath was forced out of him in a rush. There he was: crazy hair, leather jacket, golden eyes, smile like the sun. Akaashi stood, unfolding himself, watching him as Bokuto’s smile widened. He moved before he was aware of it. Next thing he knew he was wrapped around Bokuto like ivy crawling up a lovely brick house, legs around his waist, arms around his shoulders, face pressed to his neck and fighting back tears.

“I’m sorry I’m late.” Bokuto held him close, strong arms around him, kissing his head.

Akaashi shuddered, relief burning his throat. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

Someone cleared their throat. Richard’s voice said, “Excuse me…”

Akaashi looked up, carefully disentangling himself as Bokuto lowered him to his feet. Several people were looking at them curiously, most blankly, but a few smiles and a few disgruntled looks at their displays of affection towards one another. “Sorry,” he said, slipping his fingers into Bokuto’s, squeezing. _Here, he’s here_ , his brain said over and over again, crowding out all other thoughts.

Richard stepped forward, extending a hand. “This is your chef friend?”

“My boyfriend, yes.” Akaashi reluctantly removed his hand so Bokuto and Richard could properly introduce themselves.

“So you’re really a chef?”

Bokuto nodded. “Yup. That’s why I can only come on Sundays.” He was smiling at Richard, but distractedly, glancing at Akaashi. “So, I’d really like to catch up with him if that’s okay.”

“Sure,” Richard said. “I’m happy Keiji has someone so supportive.”

“Mhm-hmm,” Bokuto hummed, already stepping away. Akaashi pulled him back to his couch and they sat together, close, holding hands, Akaashi sticking his legs up to lean them against Bokuto’s.

“You’re late,” Akaashi whispered, running his fingers along Bokuto’s palm, tracing the familiar path of his calluses and scars. The familiarity of it helped to calm him.

“I’m sorry,” Bokuto said. “We had a rough night—I slept in—couldn’t catch a cab, ran halfway here before I managed to snag one. I, god, I’m so sorry. You know I’d be here everyday if I could.”

Akaashi pressed his lips together, then nodded in acquiescence.

Bokuto said quickly, “So, how are you?”

“Okay…” Akaashi shrugged.

Bokuto leaned forward, concern making his eyes wide. “Yeah?”

“I mean… it’s hard. It’s strange.”

“Strange, how?”

Akaashi shifted back, sighing. “I’m just… y’know, I don’t like being… told what to do.”

Bokuto brushed his fingers over Akaashi’s arm the way he liked, soothing. “But they do it to help, right? It’s not like… _bad_ bad?”

“…No. It’s not—I suppose.” Akaashi grimaced, but would rather tell Bokuto all the things he hated about the facility and get a receptive, sympathetic ear instead of to the therapist and get a _now, it’s all for your own good_ line. “Except the bathroom stuff, it’s frustrating. It’s like the hospital—someone always has to be outside the door and we have to talk to them the whole time. It’s _embarrassing._ And meals are even more structured.”

“Oh?” Bokuto gave him a sad smile.

“Yeah. Full of rules… which I _get_ but… hate.”

“Like what? I guess it’s not your mother’s ‘no elbows on the table’ stuff, huh?”

Akaashi chuckled. “More than that. They take our watches, there’s no clocks in the lunchroom. We have to roll up our sleeves so we don’t sneak anything away from our plates. We can’t talk about food at the table, can’t compare what we’re eating with someone else, cause they might have different needs or are at a different stage in the program. Ugh,” he scoffed, “and it’s so cold in there. I freeze my ass off every meal. And we can’t cut our food up, and we can’t take _too long_ to eat, even though there’s no clocks, we’re supposed to know. Or the staff tells us we need to continue eating or whatever.” He sighed again, leaning forward and putting his head on Bokuto’s shoulder, rubbing his face on the soft leather of his jacket. “It just makes me miss… you. And Mattsun. And Makki. Our evenings together…” The heat of strong emotion rose in his throat at the memories, and how much he missed them.

Bokuto raised a hand to run it through Akaashi’s hair. “We’ll have that again.”

“Maybe it’ll be better then, too…” Akaashi whispered, swallowing his loneliness. Maybe then he wouldn’t hate himself for loving Bokuto’s food and wanting more of it.

“Hey,” Bokuto said, trying to be chipper, and Akaashi leaned back to look at him. “I’ve been looking for all sorts of things to make for us. Things I think you’ll like.”

“…Thank you,” Akaashi said softly. “Really. I … I actually miss your food.”

Bokuto beamed. “I’m glad! I want you to like it.”

“That’s what they try to teach us here. To like food… but it’s hard when we’ve spent so long avoiding it or regulating it.” He laughed a bit. “It’s easier with your food. The cook here isn’t bad, but… y’know. Oh! What was that thing you made me? I can’t remember. I was trying to tell Richard about it.”

Bokuto smiled. “Ratatouille. You liked it that much?”

“Yeah… I wish you could bring me some.”

Bokuto reached up to touch Akaashi’s cheek. “I’ll make it when you get home.”

“And don’t let Makki eat it all this time.”

Bokuto laughed. “Promise. I’ll make us a pan all our own.”

In truth, the fear he harbored for any and all foods only made him want to try harder with his recovery. Bokuto was so good at his job—but by now cooking wasn’t just a job to him, it was his passion. And he was one of the best cooks in the world in Akaashi’s opinion. So, for him, for Bokuto, he would get better. He wanted to love what Bokuto made him and not fight with himself while eating his food. But it was more than just food. He wanted to stop being scared. Stop being angry at himself. He wanted to be happy and love himself and love Bokuto the way he should be loved. A part of that was food… and another part was Akaashi trying to overcome the deep, dark fears of what Terushima had done to him. Unfortunately, the therapist believed that the two could be dealt with hand in hand, even though Akaashi tried to tell her that his problems with eating had come years before Terushima had come in and ruined everything else.

Bokuto was saying, “Oh, did I tell you? Kuroo’s letting me put it on the menu, too.”

“That’s great!” Akaashi exclaimed, touching Bokuto’s hand and leaning into it. “I’m so proud of you. You’re amazing.”

Bokuto’s smile was broad and genuine, so happy it hurt Akaashi’s heart.

Richard moved towards them, having just come from the last client and his family. “Five minutes,” he said.

Bokuto protested, “But I just got here!”

Richard’s smile was overly kind. “I’m sorry. But we have a schedule to keep to… Really, I am very sorry. There’s always next week.” The worst part was that he did genuinely look apologetic.

After he left, Bokuto pouted, reaching and pulling Akaashi into a hug. Akaashi closed his eyes with pleasure—the staff wasn’t allowed to touch them and he didn’t want to touch the other clients. He was touch starved, and he hadn’t thought that would have been possible after Terushima. But it was Bokuto. It was always Bokuto that changed him for the better.

“Be on time next week,” Akaashi whispered, inhaling the sharp, strong scent at the base of Bokuto’s throat.

“I promise,” Bokuto said against his hair.

They stayed like that for a long time, until Akaashi heard people getting up, moving towards the door. He shuddered, trying to press down the hot tears in his throat. “I’ll see you…”

Bokuto stood, letting Akaashi press himself into his arms in a lingering final hug. “Next week I’ll be early.”

“Okay…” Akaashi said, leaning against his chest. He thought that if he closed his eyes and pretended… Bokuto wouldn’t have to go.

But he did. Bokuto pulled him away, cupping his face and kissing him for a long moment before touching their cheeks together. “Early,” he promised again, stepping away, touching his hand one last time before he left.

 

* * *

 

It was the middle of a very busy Friday night when Sarukui and Kenma stepped through the port door together. Kenma looked distressed, but he always looked distressed, so that was nothing new to worry about. What worried Kuroo was Saru’s confused and disgruntled expression. It made him pause in the calling of the next ticket to narrow his eyes at them, already sensing a problem. “What is it?” he demanded.

Saru poked his cheek with his pen then stuck it behind his ear as he gathered his words. “Chef, we have… an odd order.”

Kuroo’s anger bristled. “I swear to god if Oikawa—”

“No, no,” Saru promised, making a calming motion with his hand and check pad, “nothing like that.”

Kenma glanced at Saru, looking worried. “I have a man at the bar…” but he trailed off before he finished.

Kuroo snapped, “Figure out your story.” He turned away, called the ticket, slapped it onto board and then turned his attention back to the pair, arms folded. “Well?”

Kenma said, “DoorDash,” as if that explained it all.

Kuroo’s scowl deepened. “Pardon me?” he growled through gritted teeth.

Kenma flushed, looking away. He’d never been one for confrontation, and Kuroo felt a little bad forgetting that his friend wasn’t at fault and he shouldn’t take his anger out on him.

Saru laid a hand on Kenma’s shoulder in his defense. “Apparently they called an order in earlier—”

“We don’t _do_ —”

“ _I know_ ,” Saru retorted back, voice like a whip. He’d been dealing with ornery back of house for as long as Kuroo had been _working_ back of house so Kuroo’s thorns couldn’t poke him. “Lyanna _told_ him that, obviously. Hung up on him. But here he is, trying to pick it up.”

Kuroo snorted. “Tell him to fuck off.”

“He says it’s been paid for already.”

Kuroo spread his hands, pretending to look around himself. “I don’t see any money.”

Kenma sighed again, pulling at a stray strand of hair from his ponytail. “He says the company and the restaurant have some sort of streamlined deal. Says it’s been credited or something.”

Kuroo felt his face twitch in anger, heat rising in his cheeks that had nothing to do with the fire in the kitchen. “I’m not making free food.”

Saru glanced at his check pad. “It’s only a salad.” Kuroo slapped a hand on the counter, making Kenma step backwards and Saru narrow his eyes.

“Venison, walking!” Kai called, and Bokuto echoed from his station, both of them meeting at the hot plate with their dishes.

Kuroo thanked them, still bristling. He began to plate until Saru cleared his throat loudly. “What?” Kuroo huffed, glaring up at him.

“What do I tell him?”

Kuroo scoffed. “Look, even if I _wanted_ to waste time making it—I’ve got nothing to put it in.”

Kenma said thoughtfully, “Could ball it up in plastic wrap, dressing and all.”

Down the line, Bokuto snickered. Kuroo shot him a glare and told Kenma, “No. Just tell him to leave.”

Saru asked, “And his order?”

“Fuck his order. Send him to the damn Olive Garden for a salad.”

At that moment the hostess, Lyanna, came in, her long dark hair tucked up in a lovely and complicated braid that looked like a crown around her thin, sharp face. “Hey, Kuroo—”

“Don’t tell me,” he huffed in frustration, sensing more trouble.

Her big blue eyes widened in amusement, mouth pinching as she rested a hand on her hip. “Alright.”

Kuroo frowned at her even Saru and Kenma gave her curious looks. Fukunaga looked over at her with quick, adoring glances. He had something akin to a crush on her, but she hated any and all seafood with a loud, protesting passion, so he said it would never work.

“Well?!” Kuroo hissed, finishing the plate and sliding it forward as the rest of the table came up too. Kai checked his grill to make sure he had time, then stepped to the hot plate to help Kuroo plate before the food died in the window.

Lyanna tossed her head—which would have been more impressive had her hair been down. “You said not to tell you.”

“Lyanna!”

She laughed, pointing to Saru and Kenma. “I just got another call about that order stuff.”

Kuroo was baffled. “The fuck?”

Kenma had his phone out, tapping quickly on the screen until he said, “Ah. Here it is. We’re on their website.” He scrolled, Saru leaning over to look.

“Ha!” Saru snorted, amused. “They don’t even have this season’s menu.”

“Mother fuckers,” Kuroo muttered. He looked over at Kai, who shrugged as he finished a plate.

“Go take care of the problem,” Kai told him, smiling. “I can finish here.”

Kuroo was dismayed. “I don’t want to leave you on your last night here…”

Kai laughed, straightening as he finished the table. “ _Mon frère,_ it would be an honor to finish service for you tonight—if you’d let me.”

Kuroo thought he might cry. He loved this man so much—he’d miss his steady, unflappable presence. He clapped a hand on Kai’s shoulder. “Thank you. Make me a symphony.” He waved a hand to the three in front of him. “Go,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.”

Saru took the table as he left and Kuroo stalked to his office, swiping off his apron and headband. He threw himself in his chair and pulled up the website. Sure enough, there his restaurant was, phone number, picture, last season’s menu, and all. He took a minute to find the company’s number and dialed—waiting while drumming his fingers on his desk to the sound of kitchen clatter.

“DoorDash customer service, how can I help you?”

Kuroo took a breath before speaking. “Yes. Who do I speak to about removing my restaurant from your website?” He knew that he’d get further being polite yet firm rather than screaming at them from the first thing.

“Yes, sir, one moment,” the man on the other side of the line said. Typing was heard, then the line clicked. For a moment Kuroo thought he’d been hung up on and was immediately furious. Then it was picked up again and a woman’s voice said, “DoorDash customer service, this is Joy, how may I help you?”

Kuroo breathed again. “I’m calling to inquire about how to remove my restaurant from your services.”

Joy said immediately, voice that too chipper tone of a salesperson, “Sir, I’m sorry you’re unhappy. Here at DoorDash we want all our customers to be happy. Do you know the benefits of being a restaurant in our service?”

Kuroo sighed, already done with this conversation. “No, but—”

She cut him off, “Well, sir, our services have brought thousands of restaurants across the country many more customers they couldn’t reach otherwise—”

Kuroo cut _her_ off this time. “We don’t need help getting customers.”

Joy continued as if he hadn’t spoken: “We also can essentially give your restaurant an entirely new revenue stream—”

“We don’t need—”

“Thus increasing your overall sales and profits for you. It’s hassle free, too…”

Kuroo set his phone down on his desk, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose in frustration. The woman was reading her script and he was stuck sifting through a corporate mess he had never wanted any part of. When he put the phone back to his ear she was just finishing her spiel.

“…to bring the _best_ of every city to its customers, right to their door.”

“I understand that,” he said slowly, like he was speaking to a small, stubborn child who refused to eat their broccoli, “but my restaurant doesn’t need all that. We don’t _do_ to-go.”

“Well, sir, maybe you should consider it. Millions of—”

“No!” he almost shouted. “No, I won’t. I can’t control the consistency. I won’t have it.”

“With the new advances in technology, food will arrive to the customer in the exact same condition as if it was to a table.”

Kuroo said flatly, “I highly doubt your drivers—”

“Dashers,” she corrected.

“ _Delivery boys_ on their goddamn mopeds know how to handle a delicate sugar cage. So,” now he hardened his voice, “ _please._ I’m asking politely. Remove my restaurant— _je sais pas_ , number 10 Columbus Circle, New York City—by my request.”

Joy’s chipper demeanor faltered for only a moment. “And what is your name, sir? We require authorization—”

“I am chef and owner—Kuroo Tetsurou. Now will you please remove everything to do with me and mine from your website and never put it up again?”

“… I can do that, sir, but I must ask once more, do you understand how much you’ll be giving up by ending your partnership with us?”

Kuroo _did_ shout at her this time. “We’re _not_ partners. You did this all without my permission or consent. Remove my restaurant from your website immediately or else I will be forced to seek legal action. Do—you—understand?”

Joy was silent for several long moments. “Yes, sir. Give me a moment.” She typed on her computer for a time then said, “Alright, sir. It’s all been taken care of. Call us if you ever change your mind and wish to benefit from—”

“Thank you,” Kuroo said curtly and hung up, wishing he had a landline so he could properly slam the phone down instead of just angrily punching the red button on his cell phone with his thumb. He leaned back in his chair, frustrated, as he scrubbed his hands through his hair. That’s done. He hoped Saru had taken care of the man at the bar—and if so then this whole mess would be behind him, over and done with.

He went to the office door but paused when he saw the line working so smoothly without him. They had found their groove, working quickly and pushing tables at a swift and steady pace. Leaning against the door, he watched them for a while, knowing that if he interrupted them they’d lose the rhythm. Kai was doing well. He looked happy. Bokuto was too, at the grill that would be his place come tomorrow. So Kuroo went back to his desk, deciding to work on payroll and inventory for another hour or so until he could start cleaning. Jason might like help in the dish pit—as long as Kuroo didn’t fuck up his system.

 

* * *

 

When service was over, Kuroo and Kai exchanged an emotion filled embrace. “ _Bon chance, mon frère,_ ” Kuroo said. “Find your happiness.”

Kai smiled at him then flipped his wrist around to glance at his watch. “It is not so late. I am finished packing… my flight is in the afternoon… How about we go for a round before we part ways?”

“Oh, I like that idea!” Kuroo smiled. “I’ll buy.” He extended the invitation to the kitchen at large and nearly everyone accepted. Kai was loved by everyone here and would be sorely missed.

As everyone was leaving, all together for once, Kai stopped to look the back door for the last time. He turned when he was through, pulling the ring with the keys to the restaurant from his keyring. On it was a copy of each of _je sais pas_ ’s keys: front door, back door, office, safe, the cage, the pastry shop, bathrooms, liquor storage, wine storage, front of house storage, cleaning supplies, and the locker room. Only Kuroo and Kai had ever had a full set, with Yaku and Suga having the necessary keys for the pastry shop and the back door, Oikawa all the front of house keys, and Kenma the bar storage. In no way would _je sais pas_ ever not be able to function if one of it’s pieces was missing. Even if both Kuroo and Kai were missing, the others could come together and open every door that _needed_ opening. Like Voltron, Kuroo thought.

Kai silently contemplated his keys for a moment then said, “It seems I am finished with these as well.” He held them out to Kuroo, who smiled sadly and flicked his eyes at Bokuto. Kai held out the set to Bokuto, who was watching them with a wide eyed grin, and dropped them into his outstretched palm. “ _Voilà,_ my friend.”

“Don’t lose them,” Kuroo told him. “I won’t make you another copy.”

Bokuto beamed, clutching them tight. “I won’t!” He looked pleased, flushed with pride, his cheeks a bit pink and his smile so wide it touched every part of his face.

From beside him Yaku said suddenly, “Wait, let me see those.”

Everyone frowned at him in confusion. He had his own set that matched Suga’s: back door, pastry shop, cage, bathrooms, locker room. He didn’t need what were now Bokuto’s keys. So Bokuto held his new prize close to his chest to protect them. “Why?”

Yaku reached for them, grabbing the sleeve of Bokuto’s leather jacket. It was cold enough now in early November that everyone had abandoned their chef coats and opted instead for jackets and hoodies to stave of the cold. “I don’t want you having keys to my shop.”

Bokuto laughed, pulling away, then cackling as Yaku grabbed and missed when Bokuto held the keys high over his head. “No way, short stuff!”

Yaku yelped in indignation, about to punch him when Kuroo said sharply, “Calm down, Yaku. It comes with the position.”

Yaku clutched at Bokuto’s arm, reaching for the keys… then realizing he was at least six inches shorter than the other shortest person around, so now he did punch Bokuto’s arm instead. “I don’t trust him not to eat everything. I _swear_ I had danishes missing two weeks ago!”

Bokuto grinned, but then his insults turned into a squawk when Lev plucked the keys from his outstretched hand from behind. “Hey!”

Lev handed the keys to Yaku and he began to attempt to wrest the key from the ring until Kuroo snatched them from him while Kai laughed.

“Stop that!” Kuroo told him. “I give you a lot of leeway here because we’re friends and because you’re good at your job—but the same goes for Bokuto. He’s _sous_ now and you’ll treat him with the same courtesies you gave Kai.”

Yaku scowled at him as Kuroo dropped the keys back into Bokuto’s hands. “I won’t trust him until he earns it.”

Bokuto huffed. “You’ll never—”

Kai stopped him by tucking an arm around his neck, the other around Yaku, and hugging them both close. “Guys, guys!” he said loudly. “Fight this out later when I am not around. I wish to drink and remember happy times before I go.” They grumbled their assent and as a group the entire kitchen staff of _je sais pas_ walked to the closest bar and commandeered the biggest table they could find. Kuroo ordered a round of shots for everyone for toasts and several large pitchers of beer for the table. They spent several hours simply enjoying being together for the last time with Kai—everyone telling stories of him. Kuroo entertained the table of the day they’d met in Paris many years ago at _Guy Savoy_ , arguing over the proper procedure for deboning a duck until Kai had cursed him out in French and Kuroo had gone to buy a dictionary to retaliate.

Bokuto remembered happily about the time Kai had spent with him in the early days of _je sais pas_ and how Kai had told him he’d been cutting potatoes wrong his entire life, then taught him a quicker, more consistent way.

Yaku sat beside Kai, and he clearly hadn’t eaten enough of the bar snacks they’d ordered because his face was flushed cherry blossom pink from alcohol. “You’ll remember the secret recipe I showed you?”

“Of course. I will treasure it always.”

Kuroo leaned around Kai to peer at Yaku. “What was it?”

Kai grinned at him over his drink. “ _C’est un secret._ ”

“ _Dis-moi_! _Ce que c’était_?”

“My super secret caramel sauce,” Yaku said, pointing at him with a grin.

Both Lev and Kuroo gasped in shock. “What?!” Lev asked, appalled and hurt. “You showed _him_ and not _me_?” Yaku’s caramel sauce was legendary. It was what the ancient Greeks had presumably fed to the gods. Perfection on a plate. Yaku had never told anybody how to make it, always keeping the recipe private, never even writing it down.

Yaku reached up and patted Lev’s cheek fondly. “I’ll teach you other things,” he said, a glitter in his eyes and a suggestive tilt to his lips.

The table exploded in raucous laughter as Lev’s cheeks flared bright red. Inuoka and Yamamoto fell over each other laughing, smacking one another on the back when one choked on air. Even Kuroo raised his eyebrows in amusement, hiding his smile behind his fist.

“We should go,” Lev murmured, standing and trying to pull Yaku to his feet.

“ _Mais, non_!” Kai said hurriedly. “ _Attendez, s’il vous plaît._ ” He turned, gesturing to a waitress. “Pardon, will you take a photo for us?” The girl agreed and they all crowded around one side of the table and when the camera flashed in the darkened bar Kai thanked the woman and took his phone back. He smiled down at the photo and for the first time it seemed to be dawning on him that he’d be leaving—possibly, probably, never to see any of these people again. They might text, but it would all be different.

Kuroo leaned over to see the picture, liking the look of them all: young, wild, and alive. Like a family with their arms around each other. “ _Envoie-moi ça._ ” He wanted a copy of it to print and frame for his office.

Kai nodded. “I will…” He looked up at Kuroo, voice suddenly full and thick with emotion. “ _Merci pour tout cela. Cette chaleur familiale tu m’as donnée sera dans mon coeur pour toujours._ ”

Kuroo smiled at him then they both watched as half the table mocked Yaku while he yelled at them. “No,” Kuroo said after the chorus of laughter had died down. “ _C’est toi._ You are the one I should be thanking. You helped bring this together. Helped me keep my sanity.” He sighed sadly, shaking his head. “ _Que vais-je faire sans toi_?”

Kai pulled him in for a hug and patted his chest firmly, comforting and chastising at the same time, telling Kuroo not to be upset. “You will prosper and do just fine. Bokuto will rise to his potential, do not have fear.”

Kuroo chuckled. “Ah—mhm… sure. I hope so.”

They spent a long time prolonging the inevitable, everyone telling more stories and making more jokes, until the bar itself was almost empty and their waitress had changed to a sleepy looking, bored young man who glared at them and their happiness. Finally, it could be put off no longer and Kai stood, finishing the last dregs of his drink. “If I hope to sleep at all, I must go now.”

Several people groaned but Kai waved them down. “Stop, now. You all have my number. Call me if your fearless, reckless leader loses his head. Otherwise—you are all fine. You are all good at what you do.” He leaned over and patted Yuuki on the shoulder. They’d spent a lot of time together over the months and the _commis chef_ looked up to Kai as a mentor, and had tears in his eyes as he said goodbye. “Good bye,” Kai said, turning away from them. He called over his shoulder as he left, “ _J’espere vous voir tous un jour dans le Guide._ ”

“What’d he say?” Bokuto asked, looking up from his phone. He’d been on it off and on all night, presumably texting Akaashi things for him to find the next time he was allowed his phone.

Kuroo smiled into his glass. “He says he wants to see us in the Guide someday.”

Inuoka, also a bit more drunk than he was letting on, leaned across the table. “The what?”

Kuroo glanced at Bokuto, who was beaming—he knew what it was, excitement was seeping from his every pore. Yamamoto shook Inuoka by the arm, yelling with an exaggerated passion, “ _The Guide,_ you moron, the _Michelin Guide_!”

Inuoka gasped, grabbing Yamamoto’s arms to stop him. “Really?!”

Kuroo chuckled. “I’ve been considering trying for a star.”

“Let’s do it!” Bokuto shouted, throwing his arms in the air. Kuroo glanced at the phone that nearly went flying from his fingers until he fumbled for it and clutched it.

“We’d need to go back to a French menu, I think,” he said. “Consistency is key for a Michelin star.”

On Yuuki’s other side Fukunaga spoke up, “We’re consistently wonderful. Three hundred covers a night. Good food. I don’t see a problem.”

Everyone smiled at him then looked to Kuroo with the fire of excitement in their eyes. He took a moment to meet each of their gazes, one by one, then stood, pulling out his wallet and dropping a wad of cash on the table. “All right, then. But if we do this we can’t all be late with hangovers. Go home, sleep.” He waved a hand at Bokuto, who smiled back, his alcohol tolerance well above nearly everyone at the table besides Kuroo and Fukunaga, who hadn’t drank hardly anything to begin with. “You’ll make sure they go soon?”

“Sure thing, boss,” Bokuto said. Kuroo knew he would take his new responsibilities seriously and get everyone in a taxi and headed towards home before the hour was done.

Kuroo left them then, their excited cheering following him out the door. He found a cab and made his way home, the whole time reflecting. This was the second goodbye he’d said to Kai. They’d eaten fresh croissants and drank _chocolate chaud_ on his last morning in Paris last year. Life was funny, he thought, one never knew what was to come or where they would be tomorrow.

Taking out his phone, he composed a message: _Tu me manques déja… vaut mieux pas perdre contact, je sais où te trouver._

Kai texted back almost immediately, he must not be asleep yet. _mdr… tu sais que je te tiendrai au courant_

_—aussi… envoie ce bon chocolat français_

_—ça va pas fondre dans le courrier?_

_—pas si tu emballes sa bien_

_—pas ‘sa’ mais ‘ça’ …mais je peux essayer._

Kuroo cursed himself. Even after nine years he was still fucking up his grammar. Especially when he was exhausted and not thinking straight. Maybe he should take classes somewhere. Or teach Bokuto French. He’d miss the practice of speaking the language everyday.

When he stepped inside his apartment Madame peeked at him from the back of the couch and the glow of the television lit the room. He found Tsukishima passed out on the couch, leaning on his hand, pen and notebook in hand, glasses askew. Kuroo reached down to remove the glasses, pen, and notebook and set them safely on the table.

Tsukishima stirred and Kuroo leaned down to kiss his forehead. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get to bed.” He helped Tsukishima to his feet and Madame trailed behind them as they padded to the bedroom. Kuroo spent a few humorous minutes undressing a sleepy and uncooperative Tsukishima from his tie, jacket, and dress pants before he crawled into bed, with Kuroo stripping his bar smelling clothes and slipping in beside him.

Madame spread herself out on his feet, purring, a tiny heater. Kuroo wondered if trying for a star was smart… Fukunaga wasn’t wrong, but they’d not been as consistent in their performances as he’d have liked. He’d definitely want to go back to a French menu. Modern cuisine… or classic made new. Something. Bokuto didn’t know much about classic French cuisine, but he was a sponge—always seeking out and soaking up new knowledge. Plus he had the talent to back it up.

“Shhh,” Tsukishima whispered, turning over and gazing up at him with hazel eyes barely open. He was hardly awake himself.

“Hmm? I didn’t say anything.”

Tsukishima pressed his palms to Kuroo’s face. He held them there until Kuroo smiled against his skin, then parted them as if playing games with an infant. “You’re thinking too loud. Stop it and sleep.”

Kuroo laughed, taking his hands and folding them against his own chest. “Sorry.”

Tsukishima looked at him, considering, then closed his eyes and cuddled closer. “Whatever it is can wait until morning.”

Silently agreeing, Kuroo wrapped his arms around Tsukishima and pulled him close before he too closed his eyes. When he slept, he dreamt of Paris—reliving every happy memory he had there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French Translations:  
>  _C’est un secret_ \- It’s a secret.  
>  _Dis-moi! Ce que c’étair?_ \- Tell me, what was it?  
>  _Attendez, svp_ \- Wait, please.  
>  _Envoie-moi ça_ \- send me that  
>  _Merci…toujours._ \- Thank you for all this. This family warmth that you have given me will stay in my heart forever.  
>  _C’est toi. …. Que … sans toi?_ \- It’s you. What will I do without you?  
>  _tu me... trouver._ \- I miss you already. better not lose touch, i know where to find you  
>  _mdr … courant_ \- (mort de rire, French eq. of lol) you know that i will keep in touch with you.  
>  _aussi … français_ \- also, send me that good french chocolate  
>  _ça … courrier_ \- it will melt in the mail?  
>  _pas si … bien _\- not if you pack it well__  
>  _pas … essayer._ \- not ‘sa’ but ‘ça’ .. but i will try.” (sa, ça mix-ups are the eq. of 'their, there, and they’re' in French)


	32. simmer

“So,” the therapist said, “you’ve been with us for almost two months now. How do you feel?”

Akaashi glanced at her, then back out the window while he considered his answer. Her office was higher up than the group room and he liked having the extra height to look down upon the streets. “I’m fine.”

“Really?” she asked, perched on one of her armchairs. She insisted they use their first names with each other, and hers was Willow—it matched her breezy, floating way of speaking. She was very young and she didn’t look much like a professional, but Akaashi thought that’s why he liked her. She always dressed in bright, pretty colors—long flowing dresses, whispering silken pants and suit jackets, flowery shirts and leggings. She dressed like any of his friends would, and considering most of his friends were models she dressed rather well. “You don’t sound very happy.”

He shrugged, leaning against the window, drawing patterns in the frost. “I’m not, but that’s nothing to do with this place.”

She looked curiously at him. “What do you mean?”

He doodled a little owl in the frost… or it would have been an owl, could he draw. But he couldn’t, so he just wiped it away. “I mean… I won’t be happy living here. Ever. I just want to get better and go home.”

“Ah, I see. Well, you’ve made a lot of improvement. You’re doing very well here.”

“That’s what they tell me.” He tried to draw a cat next and failed at that too. Ears, the ears were never symmetrical. The only thing he could draw were whiskers and those were straight lines.

“Come sit down,” she said, motioning to the couch in front of her. “Let’s talk. It’s cold over there.”

It _was_ cold by the window, the winter air seeping in and the snowflakes melting on the pane. He’d been cold for years now, though, so it didn’t bother him as much as it could have. But he swiped his hand over his doodles and came to sit on the couch, leaning on the arm. “Sorry, I guess I’m not supposed to say I hate it here.”

“You can say whatever you want.” She smiled, but he could see the worry in her eyes. “I always prefer the truth.”

He sighed, running his fingers through his hair. It was too long, he really needed to get it cut. “Okay… I don’t _hate_ it here. I don’t even mind the rules much anymore. I get why we need them, sure. Whatever. But I miss my boyfriend and my home more.”

Willow nodded, understanding. “I understand.”

“A lot of the guys here don’t have good home lives,” he found himself saying. “They talk about it in Group and I feel bad for them. Really, I do. And I get why some of them are so resistant to treatment… and don’t want to go home or have nowhere to go once they leave. Everyone knows Michael says and does things to get himself held back in treatment.”

She raised her eyebrows but didn’t seem shocked. “Some are more resistant than others, it’s true.”

“Well, not me,” he said. “I want to finish this and go home. I don’t like being around all these people, I don’t like waking up and having nothing to do but follow a schedule designed to have me thinking all day about how much I want to get better or how much I wish you guys would hire better cooks. I want to go home and watch bad TV with my boyfriend and listen to my roommates argue about stupid stuff and make up before they have sex so loud I have to go downstairs and turn the television up _super_ loud to drown it out.” He paused when he realized he was running out of breath. “I just want to take my life back.”

“And you’re—”

“Doing well, I know.”

She shook her head, smile still in place. “Don’t be snippy. I thought we were past that.”

He groaned, leaning back into the couch. “Sorry.”

She scribbled something on her notebook while saying, “You talk about them a lot. Your roommates.”

“Yeah, I guess. They’re my best friends.”

“Really?” She smiled, trying to keep the conversation flowing while she poked his brain for whatever she was looking for. It couldn’t have been anything about his proclivities with food—they’d been over that with a fine toothed comb. How and when it had started: several years ago when he’d tried to lose weight after being rejected for a few modeling jobs and he thought the younger models had gotten the job because of how lean they were. How, after he’d lost weight, he’d gotten more jobs, had even been overbooked for a few months and how it had cemented the idea that a skinnier self meant more jobs.

Thinking back on it, he’d discovered talking to her, it had been simply the influx of spring fashions and they’d had a lot of contracts and magazines to fill.

And then, how he had gotten worse when Terushima had begun to torment him, when he’d gone almost a week without eating anything at all, too scared to eat, too hurt to do anything but drink. Makki had noticed though, and Mattsun had intervened, sitting with him for three hours while he forced down a tiny meal of fruit and crackers. He’d been more careful after that but Mattsun had always known, resulting in their loud, furious fights on the subject, even though he never knew the true extent of the problem.

Mattsun had even been there twice for family therapy sessions, looking regal and deadly coming in after his modeling shoots. He, Makki, and Bokuto were the only people Akaashi considered family since he’d left his parents back in Colorado and never looked back. Mattsun apologized to Akaashi when he realized that his constant irritation and arguments hadn’t helped him, and promised that he’d do better in supporting him instead of chastising him. 

“Yes,” Akaashi said. “When we first met we hated each other, though. We’d joined the modeling agency at the same time and both applied for housing so we were put up in the brownstone together. The first time I met him he was trying to impress some guy by cooking naked and he almost fried his—well, you don’t want to know.” Akaashi laughed aloud at the memory—Mattsun turning to see Akaashi loitering in the doorway, still carrying boxes, and being so startled he’d dropped whatever he’d been trying to cook into a pan of hot oil where it had spluttered and popped onto his bare skin, _dangerously_ close to something no man wants touched by hot oil. He still had a tiny round scar, Makki told him, right in the crease of his hip.

Willow laughed too, a sweet sound that Akaashi actually really liked. Her laugh wasn’t loud, but a little breathless thing, like she was always so overwhelmed with it. “Oh, wow. That must have been a shock.”

“Well…” Akaashi thought back, remembering how he’d been shocked, yes, and after he’d stopped laughing he’d admired the confidence with which Mattsun had carried himself, burns and all. “It took a few weeks for us to properly talk to each other. But we worked on the same photoshoot for a little bit and walked to work together… and we sorta had to talk to each other. I mean we _didn’t_ but it was easier than ignoring each other. We just sorta… slowly became friends after that.”

“These things happen that way,” Willow said, leaning on her hand and smiling at him.

“Mhm,” he agreed. “But after we’d lived together for … oh, half a year, maybe more, we went out clubbing one Fourth of July together. He didn’t have a date for that one, surprisingly, and I’d just been broken up with so I got _really_ drunk. I don’t even remember that night, to be honest with you. It was awful. But I know that Mattsun took care of me—didn’t let me get hurt or kidnapped or anything, got me home, helped me shower, and put me to bed. He even slept beside me incase I got sick in the night.” He remembered how he’d grabbed at Mattsun’s shirt, clinging to him, sobbing because he thought he’d loved the guy who had broken up with him. How silly he had been. He hadn’t known love back then. Not until Bokuto.

“And when we woke up the next morning he managed to not burn the toast and we ate an entire loaf sitting in the floor of our kitchen. No jam. No butter, it had gone bad. And I looked up at him at one point and said, ‘You know, I think you’re my best friend,’ and I remember the way he laughed and said, ‘Know what? You too, Keiji. I don’t got anyone else in the damn city I care about more.’” He shook his head at the memory—it had been a bright, hot summer day and they’d thrown open all the windows in the kitchen to let the breeze in and sat next to the vent in the floor in tank tops and their underwear trying to keep cool, periodically letting ice melt in their hair and run down their necks.

“And the other one?” She glanced down at her notes, but apparently didn’t have Makki’s name written down anywhere easily accessible. Although he’d seen her handwriting, and wondered how she read it at all—he certainly couldn’t.

“Makki, yes,” he supplied, and watched her write it down quickly. “He and Mattsun are dating—have been for a few years now. He met Mattsun around the same time that I did, but they were only co-workers so it took them longer to become friends, especially since they were competing for the same position half the time. But for some reason Makki gave a lot of us Christmas presents that year and Mattsun felt awful because he hadn’t gotten Makki anything—none of us had, we didn’t know Makki was so _nice_ at the time. So he took Makki out to some fancy store and told him to take his pick. They started hanging out after that, and… well, I think they were fooling around before Mattsun broke up with this other guy he was dating—but I’ve never really asked him, and he’d deny it anyway, I think.

“Makki moved in pretty soon after… and I didn’t say anything, of course. Not my business. Makki’s a good guy, though. He can be a little weird, and he plays crazy pranks sometimes, but he’s overall really sweet. We bonded pretty fast over these old black and white films he brought. Have you seen _Harvey_?”

“I have not.”

“Oh, it’s really good. You should watch it.”

“I’ll put it on my list,” she said, glancing at her watch. He could tell by the way her face shifted that they were out of time, or nearly, and they hadn’t got to whatever she had wanted to talk about today. “Well, Keiji, I think it’s alright to tell you this now. If you continue on this upward swing in your treatment we can start issuing you evenings off.”

He sat up, eyes wide. “Really?” Some of the clients, the ones the therapist and dietitians trusted who were far enough in their treatment that they needed to begin toeing the waters of their old lives again were allowed to leave in the evenings for a few hours. Six to ten… every evening. It was practically heaven to Akaashi. Sure, there’d be drug and alcohol tests and they’d search him when he came back, but he didn’t care. On Mondays he could see Bokuto for four _whole_ hours. Mattsun and Makki the other evenings if they weren’t busy. Even all three of them at the same time if he could get them all together. Or he could go for a _walk in the park_. That sounded so nice, right now. He inhaled sharply at the thought that Bokuto could make that ratatouille for him again. He’d _dreamed_ of that so often it was almost inconceivable that it could ever actually happen.

She nodded, grinning with how happy he must have looked. “You’ve always done what we’ve asked. You’ve opened up to me and in Group. You done better at mealtimes, and the setbacks you’ve had since you’ve been here have never been… too far of a backward slide. And you haven’t had any within the last month. You’re one of the best clients I’ve ever had, honestly. Your desire to get well is impressive, your willpower even more so, and I’m so very proud of you.”

He felt his chest shivering with his excitement. “I—Thank you. I promise I’ll—” He looked away, pressing a hand over his mouth, so happy he couldn’t think straight.

“I don’t believe you’ll abuse the privilege,” she told him, leaning forward so he would look at her. “But I’ve trusted others before… and they’ve broken that trust. I have very high hopes for you.”

“I just want to see Koutarou,” he said, lowering his hands to his lap.

“I know, and that’s one reason I’m going to recommend you get passes in the next few weeks. I think that as long as the freedom isn’t too much for you, and you are able to be honest with yourself and me about what you’re able to handle, I think seeing him more will be better for you. And your friends. You’re very attached to them and if you can be happier while living here I think this is the next step we need to take.”

“Okay,” he gasped, breathless with excitement. “Yes. I’ll— okay.” He felt like an idiot, he knew he was grinning like one, but he couldn’t help it. The only thought that floated through his mind was _Bo, Bo, Bo._

 

* * *

 

True to his word, Bokuto was never late again. He was always early, waiting outside the building at least half an hour before the Center allowed visitors in. But when they did Akaashi was always there waiting for him. Akaashi would come and take his hand, lead him to whatever seat he’d taken that day, and they would sit close and catch up on the week with whatever they hadn’t been able to text.

They sat in the cozy window seat Akaashi favored so much, Akaashi had his feet up and Bokuto was running his fingers over the soft cotton leggings he wore. “Are you sleeping any better?” Bokuto asked, plucking a piece of fluff off his knee. “You look tired.”

Akaashi shrugged. “Not really. It’s uncomfortable. I still don’t like sleeping in a room with other people. It’s nerve wracking…”

“Did you tell them?”

“Yeah, but the doctor said I’d _get used to it_.” He rolled his eyes. “That was day three and I’m just going to deal with it.” He suddenly remembered his news, and gasped, “But! I’ve got some good news.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, the therapist said that I could start getting evening passes sometime. That means I could leave for a few hours.”

Bokuto’s face lit up with excitement. “Really? When?”

“In the next week or two, I think. Definitely before Christmas.” He took Bokuto’s hand, smiling. “It’s six to ten so we could only see each other on Mondays, but that’s better than nothing.”

“That’s great!” Bokuto said happily. “So does that mean you’re getting closer to leaving?”

“Sort of… it’s just the next step, I think. But it is one step closer to going home.” He leaned against the window, looking down across the street, an upward tilt to his lips. “We could go places. Or just… go home.”

Bokuto grinned at him, eyes wide in his joy. “We could go to the park. It’s really pretty at night.”

Suddenly, Akaashi sat up, clutching at Bokuto’s hand desperately. “Kou! I need you to do something for me!”

Bokuto laughed at how animated he suddenly was. “Anything for you.”

“The first Monday I get to spend with you—make me that vegetable dish.”

Bokuto’s face, if possible, broke into an even happier smile. “Sure! Kuroo and I have been working on it and we made an even _better_ sauce.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah! Like, we use sage and a little more salt and some honey. I didn’t think it’d be good but it _is._ Especially because Kuroo uses that honey from his friend—it’s really dark and not too sweet and it’s—”

Akaashi reached up to touch his lips with a finger, quieting him. “Just show me soon, m’kay?”

Bokuto beamed, pursing his lips to kiss his finger. “Okay.”

After a moment Akaashi pulled his hand down, shifting to be closer, wanting the warmth of him to fight off the cold from the window. “What have you been up do since last week? How’s the new position at work?”

“It’s fine,” Bokuto said, but his brows pinched together in distress. “Harder than I thought. More math than I thought, too. I’ve got to do a bunch of inventory and stuff—that was Kai’s job, mostly. Kuroo just did the ordering. And I’ve got to make sure we keep our waste down and the portions of the dishes right…” He sighed, but looked determined. “But it’s worth it. I got a pay raise and Kuroo trusts me so I’ve got to do my best.”

“I know you’ll work hard,” Akaashi said, stroking his hand. “Especially for him.”

Bokuto nodded. “Inuoka is doing really well, too.”

“He’s the one that took over your station, right? And the one who did it when…”

“Yeah, when Kuroo was pissed at me.” Bokuto waved a dismissive hand, trying to forget the time his best friend was angry with him using the gesture. “He remembers everything, too. I’m glad I had more experience back then or else I think he’d have had my station.”

“A tragedy.” Akaashi laughed.

Bokuto scoffed. “Oh! I forgot to tell you. Do you remember those pictures I sent you?”

Akaashi made a face. “The mountains of onions and disemboweled chickens? Yes. I saw them.”

“Okay, so, me and Tora had this fun idea—”

Akaashi laughed. “The two of you having ideas is never a good thing.”

Grinning, Bokuto poked his nose. “Hush. I’m telling you a story.” When Akaashi only giggled and settled down to listen he continued, “So, the other night we had an unusually high number of reservations—I think it’s cause that Buzzfeed article is getting around—so Kuroo thought we should prep extra, just in case. Plus we got in a few shipments in one day, something about the holidays and weird schedules, and everything was all on top of each other. We’ve got to break down the produce and meat and put away everything, and it was all going to be a really hard, boring day until me and Tora started competing. It was an accident, he was just trying to get through a pile of onions and I was working on some carrots beside him and we—well, you know how we are.”

“I’ve heard, yes.” He smiled, leaning his cheek on his hand to listen.

They had begun dicing faster, shouting insults at each other until Kuroo had come over, wondering what they were fighting about. At first he’d been mad, thinking they’d ruined the dice by doing it too quickly, but after looking over a handful of each pile he found that that hadn’t been the case. Then Bokuto had declared a tournament, of sorts, since they had a _lot_ of prep to get through. It wasn’t really a tournament, or a competition, but everyone, even the _commis_ chefs, had been excited by the idea. So Kuroo had drawn up a chart, listing things by difficulty and amount of time they should take, and pitted the chefs against one another.

Needless to say, everyone regretted dicing the onions first when afterwards they all looked like crying toddlers. Yuuki was the best at dices, both in speed and consistency, and Kuroo had given him ten dollars. After that everyone thought they’d get money and worked twice as hard. All the produce was put away and the salad and cold apps station was stocked in half the time it usually took, with vegetable peels flying everywhere—and Kuroo taking off points for cleanliness, though no point system other than the one in his head was ever implemented.

Bokuto and Inuoka worked prepping the chickens they’d gotten that morning. They broke them down into eight pieces each, packed them away by type, and moved onto the next until their boards were slick with pink and white juices and Bokuto, in his haste, had nearly sliced his finger off (again). He’d done more than Inuoka, though, with cleaner cuts because he’d been breaking down chickens for _years_. He congratulated Inuoka with a gross, sticky high five over the sink when they were cleaning their hands and utensils. Kuroo didn’t give him any money, unfortunately.

“You’re supposed to be the responsible one now, Bo,” Kuroo had told him with a smirk when Bokuto had complained. “You don’t _need_ money as a reward for a day’s hard work, do you? Just your pride and knowledge that you _did a good job._ ” Bokuto hadn’t argued with him even though he’d have liked a bit of cash for a drink after work.

Even the bakers had been brought in on the fun, Lev and Yaku needing to make gallons of whip cream for a dessert Yaku and Kuroo had planned. Kuroo had tasked them to make one batch of it by hand, whisking furiously by hand, just to see who could do it better.

And, to everyone’s shock and delight, Lev beat Yaku quite handily, since he’d had to make it by hand in school and Yaku had had industrial mixers for most of his career. He proved this by holding his bowl over Yaku’s head and watched with pride as the fluffy white peaks stayed firmly in place. Yaku had pretended to be angry that his apprentice had beat him but everyone could see how pleased he really was.

“Can you show me your caramel sauce since I won?” Lev had asked, since he was still hurt that Yaku hadn’t shown him.

“No,” Yaku said simply. Lev had deflated and the few people that weren’t doing their own prep to watch had shifted uncomfortably, seeing just how far his face fell. Yaku looked him over then picked up the bowls of whip cream and as he walked back towards the pastry shop said, “I won’t show you; I’ll teach you.”

The chefs cheered Lev as he followed happily behind Yaku, already asking questions.

One of the more eventful tasks of the day was when they got an unexpected shipment of fish from a vendor that Kuroo had paid to give them first pick. Unfortunately, no one wanted to even pretend to compete against Fukunaga, who stood at his station next to the box of ice and fish, sharpening his knife, the sound loud and sheer against their ears.

No one, until Kuroo declared them all cowards and took up his own blade to face off across the counter from Fukunaga. It was a silent battle, both of them solely focused on the task of deboning and filleting the fish, not a bit of it wasted as they pushed the inedible portions into giant pots for stock. Kuroo was slow at first, having to think exactly how to do it, but once he remembered his hands were just as swift as Fukunaga’s, and everyone in the kitchen paused in their work to watch the masters.

When they were through with the box, ice littered the floor and Bokuto spent several agonizing minutes inspecting the fish. He’d worked in a seafood restaurant in Florida, and while he’d not told any of them that all their fish had been brought to them already battered and frozen, he was declared the resident expert beside Fukunaga and Kuroo, so it was his _duty_ to declare a winner.

But when he’d said, “Well, I think Kuroo technically did three more… but Fukunaga’s are better cut—”

Fukunaga had shouted, “HA!” at Kuroo who had slapped a hand on his cutting board in anger, sending it clattering to the floor.

“Goddammit,” he’d muttered. “I’m your _boss_ ,” he told Bokuto.

“Yeah, and you’d be mad if I lied to you.” Bokuto grinned back.

Kuroo leaned conspiratorially close and whispered, “What if I give you the ten bucks?”

Bokuto snickered. “I don’t think Fukunaga would like that.” The little man was doing a victory dance with the severed fish heads while Inuoka looked on in horror and Taketora hooted with laughter and filmed it on his phone.

Kuroo’s easy smile showed that he wasn’t truly mad. “Get the mop, would you? I spilled fish guts on the floor.”

Beside him, Akaashi looked green. “Gross!” he pulled his hands away from Bokuto’s as if they had fish entrails on them currently.

“You didn’t even let me tell you about—”

Akaashi cut him off with a wave of his hands, laughing. “Please don’t tell me how you killed a cow in the kitchen or something.”

“I don’t think we could fit a cow through the door,” Bokuto said thoughtfully, touching a hand to his chin in thought.

Akaashi leaned forward, sliding his fingers over the dark stubble that covered his cheeks. “Please tell me you’re not growing a beard,” he said. While he wouldn’t stop Bokuto from doing so, he did not like the idea. Too prickly, and Bokuto’s jawline was too pretty to hide.

“No, no,” Bokuto promised him, touching his hand and holding it on his cheek. “We were really busy last night and I didn’t wake up in time to shave and come here without being late.”

“You know, if you’re too tired to ever come—”

“Shut up,” Bokuto told him. “I’ll always come to see you.”

“Soon I’ll come see _you,_ ” Akaashi said happily.

“Can’t wait.” They were quiet a moment, happy just to be with one another, while Akaashi held his hand close, tracing the knife tattoos on the inside of his fingers.

“Hey, you had these redone since last week.”

“Mhm-hmm,” Bokuto said, turning his hand so Akaashi could see them better. The lines were darker, the blades more pronounced. “Yeah, I went to see Saeko.”

“That’s great.” Akaashi smiled at him. “How is she?”

“Oh, she’s good. Her girlfriend’s pretty.”

Akaashi raised his eyebrows. “Oh, do I have competition?”

“Pshaw,” Bokuto snorted a laugh. “Only if you clone yourself.” When Akaashi grinned Bokuto said, “Saeko’s making lots of money.”

“Really?”

“Yup. And I think she’s looking to make more—she’s booked full.”

“That’s great. She deserves it. How’d you afford this, though? Aren’t you just blowing through your money?”

Bokuto laughed, nervously, because it was true. Kuroo still took a chunk of his paycheck to pay for the bail he’d covered, he was still paying rent on an apartment he never went to anymore, he was buying food for the models (who ate like starving animals), he’d spent a small fortune on cookbooks, and he was blowing _too much money_ on the tattoo he had decided to keep secret until it was finished. “Well. Yeah… but I’ll be fine. I’m pretty sure my debt is almost paid to Kuroo and then I’ll get a bunch back and I’ve got a chunk of savings, still.”

“You really need to be careful, Kou, you’re going to be bankrupt soon.”

“Naaaah.” Bokuto laughed, shrugging first one shoulder than the other. He cocked his head as an thought struck him suddenly. “How are you paying for this, by the way? Aren’t places like this expensive?”

“Oh… well, the modeling agency is paying for the treatment—it’s actually in my contract.” He looked away, looking out the window as he chewed his lip worriedly. “They’ll be upset when they find out I’m not going back. Waste of money.”

“No,” Bokuto said firmly. “No, it’s not. Especially when they sort of _caused_ you to feel like you weren’t good enough.”

Akaashi gave a tiny shrug. “I mean… I’m glad they are. I certainly can’t afford it. I’ve got no money.”

“Do you need some?” Bokuto asked, touching his hair, brushing his fingers through the long, silky length of it.

Akaashi let out a sharp laugh that faded into a little wheeze. “No, Bo! I can’t take your money—you just said you’re running out! No. I’ll just have to find a job when I get out. Which, hopefully, will be before February. That’s what the therapist said.”

“Really?” Bokuto asked. “That soon?”

“It’s not soon to me…”

Bokuto waited, but Akaashi didn’t say anything else. When he seemed to be losing himself in his own thoughts Bokuto tugged gently on his hair to bring him back. “Keiji, baby, don’t do that. Stay with me.”

Akaashi’s eyes flicked to him and he pressed his lips into a thin line. “Sorry… I just… I’ll need to find a job when I leave. It seems daunting. Here all I focus on is … y’know, recovering. I don’t know where I’ll go, especially if I don’t go back to modeling. Which… doesn’t seem like a good idea.”

“No, probably not,” Bokuto agreed.

Akaashi said, “But I might not have a choice.”

Bokuto was quiet while he thought, stroking Akaashi’s hair when he leaned into his hand. “You know… you worked at a bar when we met.”

Raising an eyebrow in confusion. “Yes?”

“ _je sais pas_ has a bar.” He said it like everything was obvious.

Akaashi blinked. “I… don’t think your boss likes me all that much. Every time I’ve seen him he’s glowered at me.”

“So? Our current bar manager is making him mad, too. He keeps coming in late or asking for days off. And when he does work, he’s really distracted. I think he’s designing a video game or something—he keeps mentioning lasers or space travel or … something, I don’t know—and I think he’s pretty close to wanting to quit to give himself to it full time. But he’s devoted to Kuroo like I am so he feels bad that he can’t find anyone else to work there that has as much experience.”

Akaashi was tilling his head, letting Bokuto’s fingers tangle in his hair. “Mhm… I did work at that bar for a while.”

“And you’re a fast learner!”

“I suppose…”

“Look, I’ll talk to Kuroo about it. Warm him up to the idea.” He spread his fingers, cradling Akaashi’s head as he leaned further back, then pulled him close and kissed him. “And if he doesn’t, I’ll still take care of you.”

Akaashi’s smile was small, and sad, and scared. “You can’t—”

“Watch me,” Bokuto said, kissing him again, trying to kiss away the fear he saw in Akaashi’s eyes. “I’ll get another job!”

Akaashi shook his head. He could tell Bokuto was kidding, though, because he said, “Oh, yeah, with all the free time you have.”

“Mhm-hmm.” Bokuto smiled to show him that he would do it anyway, anything to help Akaashi not feel like he had to stress himself out over it. “It’ll be fine. I think if I tell Kuroo how good you were at the bar he’ll consider it.”

“I only poured straight drinks for you.”

“And you were _damn_ good at it. Never spilled a drop. Always just the right amount.”

Akaashi laughed again, thumping Bokuto on the chest with a half hearted fist. “You’re ridiculous… but, you know, I still remember the night we met.”

“I remember _some_ of it.”

“You were _pissed._ ”

“In both ways.”

Akaashi took Bokuto’s hand from his hair and flipped it over, poking the slightly puffy scar from the handle burn he’d had the night they’d met. “I know I shouldn’t say this, but I’m glad you got in a fight with him. I’m glad you burned your hand, or I might not have talked to you. We were busy that night and I was going to just get your order and leave you alone, thinking you were just some weirdo who wanted to get drunk… but, then I saw this and I was worried about you. I’d never seen something that looked so painful.”

Bokuto flashed a wicked grin, teeth flashing, and held up his other hand to show the long pink scar of the knife stabbing he’d inflicted on himself. “You didn’t see the night I did this.”

“Thank God,” Akaashi admitted. “But, yeah, I just… I didn’t want you to hurt. I don’t know why. You looked so angry… but then you looked so sad, after you started telling me what happened. And I knew right then that you were a good guy, no matter how deranged you looked in that moment.”

“Is that why you took me home that night?”

“Partially,” Akaashi nodded, “but also because I felt bad. I’d left that bottle for you, thinking you’d pace yourself—”

“And I didn’t.”

“And you _didn’t._ And if you had gotten hit by a car or fell in front of a train or got murdered I would have felt like such a _jerk_!”

“Ha! The city’s so big you wouldn’t have even known. I wouldn’t have even made the morning news.”

Akaashi looked up at him, eyes flashing with horror and sadness at the imagined alternate universe. “I would have felt it, I’m sure of it.”

“Maybe I would have haunted you.”

“Oh, no. Ghosts don’t exist.”

Bokuto gasped, shocked. “Sure they do!”

Akaashi squinted at him, equally shocked at Bokuto’s adamant and childlike belief. “No, Kou, they don’t.”

“I’ll prove it—”

“Oh please do.”

“When my Pa passed, that’s my grandfather, he came back _every night_ and made our cuckoo clock do the”—he did the motion with his hands of a bird coming out of the little door on the clock—“ _thingy_. The _hoot hoot_ thingy!” He actually made the sounds and Bokuto saw the twitching of Akaashi’s mouth that showed he was trying not to laugh, attempting to keep a straight face and nearly failing.

“… They do that on their own.”

“Not at the quarter hour!” Bokuto insisted, finger in the air like he was poking a hole in Akaashi’s bubble of disbelief.

“But they do that. We had one that did that every fifteen minutes until my dad smashed it one night when he was drunk and the Broncos lost an important football game.”

Bokuto was already shaking his head. “No, no. Ours didn’t do that. Not until he died. It was only _after_ he died that it started doing it.”

Akaashi scowled at him, clearly wanting to argue but not having enough information and unable to prove his point. He huffed, blowing his bangs out of his eyes. “Ghosts don’t exist, you can’t convince me otherwise.”

“And you can’t tell me they—” He paused, confused with his own sentence, then pushed on, “They _do_ exist and you can’t tell me they don’t. There!”

Akaashi grinned. “Guess we’ll just have to agree to disagree.”

“No, no, no. I’m going to take you to all the haunted places in the city!”

“God, please, no.”

“No, really! There’s this firehouse _in the Village_ —where you live, I’ll remind you—that’s haunted by a dude who hung himself. And the houses over on Gay Street—hey, don’t shake your head at me, I’ll make a believer out of you. Staten Island, too, is super haunted.”

Akaashi let out a long sigh, rolling his eyes. “Fine, fine. We’ll go and I’ll tell you all the reasons these places _aren’t_ haunted.”

“And when I show you a ghost and you shit yourself I’ll _laugh_.”

Now Akashi did laugh, sharp and high. “If I see a _real_ ghost then I’ll believe you. But it has to be a good one, not just wisps or smoke or shades. A _real,_ honest to God, hands down, spooky, humanoid _ghost_.”

“Done!” Bokuto shouted, causing several families to glance over at him, but he ignored them. “I’ll make a list as soon as I get home!”

“I can’t wait,” Akaashi said, only half joking. He glanced at his watch, and his face shifted.

Bokuto had known their time was running out. After so many visits he could sort of tell when the time was drawing near. “Maybe next time we see each other it’ll be outside.”

“I hope so,” Akaashi said, sighing.

Bokuto took both his hands in his own and held them tight. “And if not, then soon. And I’ll make the ratatouille for you and we’ll have a great evening. We’ll even lock Mattsun and Makki out of the brownstone if they’re home.”

“Ha—okay. I like that idea. Makki would just sit at the door and whine until we let them in, though.”

“He _is_ like a puppy, isn’t he?”

They said at the same time: “It’s weird,” and laughed.

Bokuto kissed his fingers then pressed them to his cheek, closing his eyes as Akaashi turned his hand to cup his cheek in his palm. “Soon,” he promised.

“Soon,” Akaashi echoed, a catch in his voice. He was always inexorably sad when Bokuto had to leave no matter how Bokuto tried to make it light hearted.

Then Richard began making his rounds, telling them they had only a few minutes. They spent the remaining time holding each other, Bokuto wrapping his arms around Akaashi, holding him close and burying his face in his hair, whispering to him just how much he loved him while Akaashi tried not to cry at the thought that he’d be leaving.


	33. jacquard

The breakfast table was crowded and tensions were high, as they usually were. The Center had gotten three new clients in one day and they weren’t happy about the new rules that were being imposed on them. One boy was nearly crying at the table—he was pale and his face was pinched with stress. Akaashi felt bad for him but he’d promised himself to not involve himself in all the drama of the Center, so he ducked his head and ate his oatmeal, wishing he could season it with something interesting—Bokuto would know something interesting, and yummy, but he did not, and even if he did he wasn’t able to get it.

However, Michael was not one to step away from any sort of drama. He was always causing some sort of problem. He was currently complaining, loudly and with quite colorful language, about all the things that were wrong with the Center. All the things he declared were _inhuman_ and _abusive_ were simply rules that kept most of the clients from hurting themselves, and him from being the destructive ass he liked to be. Two staff were trying to calm him, trying to get him to come away from the table, but it was made difficult because Michael was _always_ out of hand.

Akaashi ducked his head, trying to ignore him. Michael said snippily to one of the new guys, “Why are you here, anyway? You’re _fat_.”

The guy, who _wasn’t_ heavy at all, actually he looked healthier than literally anyone else at the table, but his face went suddenly and decidedly blank, even his eyebrows straightening to dull, neutral lines as a tear fell silently down his cheek.

Akaashi couldn’t stand to see someone hurt like this and before anyone (including himself) could stop him he looked up, slamming his spoon on the table and said, “Would you shut the fuck up, Michael?”

Michael did, in fact, shut the fuck up, staring wide eyed at Akaashi for a moment until he growled in fury. But he didn’t get to speak because Akaashi snapped, “You’re a _nuisance_ and tedious and if you don’t want to get better you should just _leave_. Go rot in jail, it’s where you belong.”

The table was silent for the space of a heartbeat. The guy that Akaashi had defended looked up at him, mouth open in shock, everyone holding their breath to see what would happen next. Akaashi thought he should apologize but before he could speak or move Michael picked up his plate and flung it at his head. Akaashi yelped and ducked (and in that moment decided that Bokuto was a big fat liar when he said a plate thrown at you was nothing), then Michael threw himself over the table, tackling Akaashi with a shout of anger.

They crashed backwards, Akaashi throwing up his arms in defense even as his shoulder screamed in pain when they slammed into the floor. Michael was faster than Akaashi had thought and knocked his fist across Akaashi’s cheek. His vision went white and stars popped behind his eyes. Blood rushed in his ears, deafening everything around him. He had half a moment of panic remembering other bodies laying atop him, hurting him… but Michael wasn’t Terushima, and Akaashi wasn’t the same person he had been all those months ago.

He remembered Bokuto telling him how to make a fist and throw a punch, but Michael was too close to get his arm in a full swing. Then he remembered Bokuto tracing the bones of his fingers and saying, “But your fingers are so fine and delicate… I’m worried you’ll hurt yourself. You should use the heel of your hand or,” he had pushed Akaashi’s arm to bend, tapping his elbow with a finger, “you can use your elbow. It’s a very strong part of your body. It’ll still hurt, but you won’t have a busted knuckle or broken finger to deal with.”

So Akaashi twisted his body, putting his entire self behind the blow, all his physical strength and all his fury at Michael (which was a lot), and swung his elbow hard, throwing it into Michael’s face and barely feeling the jolt of pain that buzzed up and down his arm. Something warm dripped across his cheek, and Michael toppled to the side with a shout. Akaashi scrambled back, panting, kicking at him until a staff counselor helped him to his feet and pulled him back. Another counselor was crouching over Michael, then having to actually hold his arms and pull him from the room when he lunged toward Akaashi again.

When he was gone the room was silent. Cal was staring at Akaashi, a wicked grin on his face. “Nice move.”

Akaashi glanced at him but realized that the room was spinning. He made a conscious effort to breathe, and discovered he was shaking. The counselor at his elbow, Conner, broke the rules by putting his arms around him. “Come on,” Conner whispered. “Let’s go.” He pulled Akaashi back towards the dorms, talking to him in low, soothing tones the whole time.

But Akaashi didn’t hear him. His vision narrowed as he stared down at his visibly shaking hands. In the dorm bathroom Conner handed him a damp cloth… but when Akaashi didn’t understand he motioned to his face. “Just clean it off.”

Akaashi blinked at him but touched the cloth to his cheek. Pulling it away, he found it smeared with red. His breath caught in his throat and he fell against the sink, drawing in quick, panicked breaths.

“Hey, hey,” Conner said gently. “It’s okay. Calm down, just take deep, slow breaths. You’re not hurt. You’re okay. It’s alright.”

Akaashi couldn’t figure out how to do that, he wasn’t in _control_ of his breath, how did Conner possibly think—

Conner took his hand, pulling the cloth from his fingers and wiping his cheek gently. He wasn’t supposed to but these things happen. “Keiji, breathe,” he said again. “I need you to focus, m’kay?”

Akaashi glanced away, then focused on Conner’s face again. He allowed Conner to lead him in a short series of breathing exercises until he found that his heart wasn’t in his throat anymore and the world wasn’t quite so loud. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I shouldn’t have said… shouldn’t have hit him…”

Conner made a face, his job and his personal preferences clearly at war. “Well… no, you probably shouldn’t. But, just between you and me, I thought he deserved it.”

“Am I going to be in trouble?”

Conner sighed. “I don’t know. That’s up to Willow and the doctors, I guess…”

Akaashi pulled away from him, suddenly realized he was being _touched_ by someone that wasn’t Bokuto and not liking it. He asked, “Can… can I just lay down for a bit?”

Conner bit his lip in frustration, taking a moment to check his email, which was how all the staff communicated with each other. “Willow asked to see you…”

In a moment of frustration Akaashi huffed and murmured, “Dammit.”

It was a long talk, to say the least. Willow asked him to explain what happened, then asked him to defend his actions. Akaashi told her he didn’t know why he had said it, except that Michael had upset the new guy (whose name was Noah, he found out) and Akaashi didn’t like seeing people forming new painful memories that would haunt them. She sympathized, but said the typical _violence is never the answer_.

To which he said, “And when have I ever been violent? It was a moment of extreme frustration. That’s all.”

She had let him leave then to go to Group where Richard asked if anyone wanted to talk about it… and talk they did. Mostly about how much of an ass Michael was, which Richard shut down, saying that he wouldn’t have that kind of negativity in his group. So Cal praised Akaashi, saying how he looked like a badass, and Noah thanked him for defending him. Then Richard said they shouldn’t praise violence and no one had much to say after that.

That evening, still shaken up, Akaashi went to the front desk for his pass, ready to leave the Center for the evening, but the staff at the front told him that Willow didn’t want him to go. He stomped up to her office, knocking furiously before she let him in.

“Yes?”

“You know what!” He huffed, scowling. “I want to go.”

She shook her head, a small little smile that showed she was upset. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think that’s a good idea. Why don’t we talk?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t want to talk to you. I want to talk to Bokuto. I want to leave.”

“Keiji, in light of what happened—”

“Let me leave, please,” he said, entreating. “I’ll even come back in an hour, I don’t care—but let me go. Please, please.” His voice was shaking. “I _need_ to go.”

She stared at him, searching his face, then sighing and leaning back in her chair, tapping her pen against her notebook. “I won’t be happy about it.”

“And I’ll do as many hours of therapy as you want me to,” he promised.

She shook her head, frowning. “You said an hour?”

“Something like that.”

“… Fine.” Her eyes flicked up to meet his. “We’ll talk when you get back.”

 

* * *

 

Oikawa stepped into the kitchen and leaned his head through the pass to say to Bokuto, “Hey, there’s a guy here looking for you.”

Bokuto looked up from the grill, frowning at him. “What?”

Even Kuroo scowled at him in confusion. “Who?”

Oikawa raised his eyebrows in amusement at their faces. “When, where, and why, huh? I don’t know his name. He’s pretty, though.”

Bokuto tried not to gasp aloud. “Black hair, blue eyes, tall, beautiful?”

Oikawa didn’t have to think long before he nodded approvingly. “That, yeah.”

Kuroo glanced at him, his frown deepening. “What’s your little model doing here?”

“I don’t know…” Bokuto muttered. His stomach was twisting in confusion and worry, his heart clutching painfully. Akaashi wouldn’t show up unless something was _wrong_. The overwhelming desire to protect Akaashi and his absolute loyalty to Kuroo warred inside him, making him nearly sick to his stomach. His face must have betrayed his fear because Kuroo made a face of his own at him—frustration and annoyance and his own sense of worry.

“Bo,” he said, voice stern, “you can’t go right _now_. You’ve got three tickets on fire. Finish them, and then you’ve got ten minutes. _Ten minutes_ , do you understand?”

Bokuto nodded. “Absolutely. It’ll take me”—he glanced over the grill and his part of the flat top, adding up the times in his head—“seven minutes. Tell him?” He looked at Oikawa, who nodded and stepped out. Bokuto turned back to his grill, checking the meats, wishing they would cook faster.

“If you fuck those up,” Kuroo told him in a decidedly firm _I’m the boss_ voice, “you don’t get to go at all. Got me?”

“Yes, Chef,” Bokuto grumbled. He didn’t blame Kuroo from a business perspective but it annoyed him that Kuroo’s boss-side overrode his friend-side right now. He needed his friend right now… but more importantly _he_ needed to be a good boyfriend.

When his meats were done he had to wait an anxious few seconds, an eternity in the culinary world, for the rest of the plates from Inuoka and Taketora, then he helped Kuroo plate them. “Good?”

“Ten minutes,” Kuroo insisted. “If you’re late you owe the jar.”

“Really, Kuroo?”

Kuroo shot him a glare. “Really. Don’t fuck me on this.”

Bokuto threw his apron under his station, walking out with as much dignity as he could muster in his panic. He saw Akaashi sitting at the bar, still wrapped in his long, warm winter coat and big, looping scarf. He always looked lovely, especially when he dressed to go out, always like he walked straight off a runway. Hinata was talking to him but when Akaashi looked over and saw Bokuto coming towards them he slipped off the stool, all focus totally off the kid and whatever he was saying. As he got closer, what Bokuto thought had been a bad play of the low lights he saw was actually a _bruise_ on his cheek, high up on his cheekbone near his temple. He was instantly furious, all of it tearing a hole straight through his gut. He stroked his knuckles over the dark red spot, a knife stabbing into his heart when Akaashi flinched at this barest of touches.

“What happened?” He asked, low, trying not to sound as angry as he felt.

He must have sounded exactly as angry as he felt because Akaashi looked up at him, eyes wide with fear, and whispered, “Can we go talk somewhere?”

Bokuto hesitated, unsure where they would go, but he nodded acquiescence and Akaashi reached up to take his hand, leading him outside and down towards the small alley where they would be out of the wind and have a semblance of privacy.

“Kou, don’t look so mad.”

“ _What_ happened? Who hurt you?” Bokuto couldn’t keep his anger tucked away, couldn’t pull his eyes from the bruise. It wasn’t old, the skin was still bright red and puffy, only the barest slivers of blue and purple beginning to form. No way this was even a day old. He wanted to find who hurt Akaashi and _kill them_. Fuck anger issues, he’d deal with that later, this was protecting the only person in the world that meant more to Bokuto than his own life. He reached up, careful not to touch the bruise when he cupped Akaashi’s cheek in his palm.

Akaashi leaned his face into his hand, his own hands coming up to curl around Bokuto’s arm, looking like a small animal being petted. “I’m alright. I can take care of myself.” He opened his eyes, the blue of them shining like ice amidst the falling snow. His voice was soft and tender when he asked, “Does it make me look tough?”

Bokuto inhaled sharply, heart clenching so hard it hurt. _It makes you look more fragile than ever_. He leaned down and let his lips brush over the bruise then kissed each eyelid, his nose, his mouth, wishing he was magic powers so he could fix everything—make sure Akaashi was never hurt again. Not by anyone, or anything. He would give the entire world to keep him safe.

Akaashi gave him the smallest of smiles. “You won’t believe me when I tell you what happened.”

Bokuto pulled away, fingers curling over Akaashi’s ear and behind his head, holding him in his hand. “Tell me.”

“Do you know the guy I told you about that was a jerk to everyone?” Bokuto nodded. “Well, he was being… an… extra jerk this morning. Saying very mean things to this sensitive new guy. And… I just… I don’t know, I snapped. I told him”—he chuckled a little, breathless with the cold—“I told him to shut the fuck up.”

Bokuto actually gasped aloud. “No fucking shit. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say that in your life.” Bokuto could count on both hands the amount of times he’d heard Akaashi say a traditional curse word. He’d _never_ heard him say _fuck_ and he couldn’t remember if he’d said anything worse than _ass_ since he’d known him. Hell just might be freezing over. It didn’t sound right touching his lips, the word too harsh for how lovely he was.

Akaashi grinned, nodding. “I’ve said it maybe three times, including this morning and just now. It’s not my favorite word.”

“What in the world caused you to say it, then?”

“Michael,” Akaashi repeated, shaking his head. “Like I said, he was being really mean to a new guy. Made him cry and I… I could tell that if someone didn’t intervene… it would traumatize him for a long time. So I… I said something. I said _that_. And Michael”—suddenly he gasped, eyes wide, and smacked Bokuto’s arm. He actually flinched because it was _right_ over a part of the tattoo that Saeko had worked on today.

He was saying, “You lied to me!”

Bokuto blinked, trying not to let the pain in his voice come through. “I’m sorry. When? What’d I say?”

“He threw a plate at me! It was _terrifying_!”

Bokuto laughed a shaky, relieved laugh, dropping his head and rubbing his own face. “Oh my god.”

“He almost hit me! And then,” he huffed in indignation, flushing with renewed aggravation, “then he tackled me! Knocked me to the floor. Calm down, don’t make that face,” he said, taking Bokuto’s hands and squeezing. “It’s alright. He only hit me once, but then I remembered what you told me … that night after Terushima.” Bokuto turned his hand, touching the fine boned fingers and hating the image of Akaashi having to use them for violence. “I hit him with my elbow. There’s a bruise there, too, but it’s too cold to show you. It’d only make you mad, anyway.”

It would, Bokuto couldn’t deny it. He let his hand cup the limb in question, careful of how tender it would be. “You hit him.”

“In the face,” Akaashi said with a small, satisfied smile. “I busted his lip.” His face twisted in disgust. “Got blood on my face. It was gross… and warm…”

Bokuto sighed, running his hand gently up and down his arm. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I wish I…”

“You can’t always protect me, Koutarou. I can do it sometimes, too.”

 _But you can’t,_ Bokuto wanted to say. “You shouldn’t have to.” He leaned down to rest his forehead on Akaashi’s, closing his eyes, touching their noses together.

He felt Akaashi’s warm breath on his face. “I’ll always need you, Kou, but sometimes I have to work through my problems on my own. But as long as you’re here to help make sure I’m okay at the end of the day that’s all I need.”

Bokuto nodded, kissing his nose, then touching his chin to pull it up and kiss him again, pressing their lips together as snowflakes touched their cheeks and melted in their hair. Then the back door opened and Jason, one of dish boys, shouted, “Yo, Bo, Chef says you gotta come back.”

Bokuto pulled away from Akaashi, still holding his face in his hands. “Gimme a second.”

“Uhhhhh….” He glanced into the kitchen, eyes wide. “I, er, think he means now.”

“Shit,” Bokuto murmured. He took Akaashi’s hand and pulled him towards the door. Akaashi protested but Bokuto said, “I want you to have something. Here, just wait here.” He parked Akaashi in the doorway as he stepped in the warm kitchen. The air was steaming as the heat rushed out and met the frigid night. Bokuto walked to the little pastry corner and asked Yaku, “Hey, can I have one of those tarts?”

Yaku was making up a dessert and he gave Bokuto a hard, snobbish look, as if Bokuto was asking for a thousand dollars. “What? No.”

“Oh, come on. I know you have extra. Just one.”

Yaku glanced at the door and when Bokuto turned he saw Akaashi standing just inside the door, pulling his jacket close around him. Several other kitchen staff were looking curiously at him, but he didn’t acknowledge them, gazing around the kitchen, looking angelic and statuesque as melt from snowflakes dripped down his sharp boned face.

“Please,” Bokuto asked. “I’ll buy it later. Swear to God.”

Yaku gave him a once over then shook his head as he sighed. “Fine.”

“Thanks!” Bokuto said, reaching into the cooler to take one then going back to Akaashi and taking his hand to set the little tart in his palm. “I made these. Well, no, Yaku did. Well, actually, I think Lev made these. But it’s my recipe. Well, Yaku fixed it. But it was my idea!” He beamed, kissing his cheek. “I want you to try it.”

Akaashi actually smiled, cupping his fingers around it and looking like a kid at Christmas. “Thank you.”

Kuroo shouted from the line, “Bo!”

“I gotta go,” Bokuto whispered. “I’ll—” he stopped, realizing he wouldn’t see Akaashi for several more days.

“I’ll be fine,” Akaashi told him. “I’ll text you when I get back. And I’ll see you on Sunday?”

“Sunday,” he promised. “And then we’ll have Monday, too?” Akaashi’s evenings off were set to start next week.

Bokuto remembered the morning after they met, stepping down the stairs of the brownstone for the first time and Akaashi’s plea. He echoed it now, touching his cheek again. “No more fights, okay? That bruise looks bad.”

Akaashi remembered too, and smiled, ducking his head to lean into his palm and say his part: “Will do.”

“Bo! For the love of God!”

“Gotta go.” He kissed Akaashi’s cheek, then Akaashi stepped outside. Bokuto watched him as he walked to the end of the alley. He turned, smiling back at him, then pulled his scarf up over his head like a hood and stepped out of sight. Bokuto scrubbed his hands clean and rushed back to his place on the line. “Where we at?”

Kuroo thrust the tongs in his hand. “You’re late.”

“Sorry,” Bokuto snapped. “I’ll put money in the jar later.”

“You better,” Kuroo grumbled. “You’ve got two venison, three filet hanging, all mid-rare.”

Bokuto nodded. “Got it. Tora, got times for me?”

 

* * *

 

After service Bokuto was scrubbing down the flattop, the smell of chemicals strong in his nose, when from behind him Kuroo asked, “So what did he want?”

Bokuto turned to look at him, leaning against the counter. “Just … to be comforted.”

Kuroo scoffed, stopping his wipe down of the pass. “Are you serious?”

“He cussed out this guy.” He blinked, chuckling. “Well, he told them to shut the fuck up.”

Kuroo raised an eyebrow. “That’s funny?”

“It’s, like, the third time he’s said the word fuck in his entire life.”

Kuroo laughed aloud, echoing his earlier sentiment with humor, “Are you _serious_?”

“Yup. He said that to this guy and the guy attacked him. Hit him. And Akaashi hit him back. I can’t imagine he’s ever been in a fight before and he was… I don’t know. He wasn’t freaking out but he … I don’t know… I don’t think he was okay.”

“So you gave him a tart? That solve all his problems?”

Bokuto blinked, then punched the counter. “Shit, I forgot to pay for that.”

Kuroo let out a sigh, shaking his head. “Fuck it. I don’t care. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Bokuto smiled at him, going back to scrubbing the flattop. “Oh, so… I’ve been meaning to ask… you’ve been wanting to replace Kenma, right?”

Kuroo threw his rag at him, glowering. “Don’t you say that. I’m not going to replace him.”

Bokuto threw it back and Kuroo caught it against his chest. “But he’s not been doing his job,” Bokuto said. “Oikawa does most of the inventory and day to day stuff other than actual bartending from what Hinata tells me. Hinata also says he’s not too happy being here.”

“Don’t listen to that kid.” Kuroo scoffed. “If Kenma wants to quit, he’ll tell me.”

“No, he won’t.”

Kuroo frowned at him because they both knew it was true. Kenma would never tell Kuroo he wanted to leave, no matter how much he wanted to. It wasn’t just Bokuto who had an undying loyalty to Kuroo. Kuroo had earned everyone’s trust in one way or another. The chefs, the dishwashers, the bar staff, the front of house servers. Kuroo had won them all one way or another.

Bokuto said, “He won’t… unless he knows you’ve got a backup plan.”

“Well, I don’t, okay?” Kuroo muttered, spraying the counter that was already clean so he could scrub it again.

Bokuto stopped scrubbing, nervous about what he meant to ask, especially since Kuroo didn’t exactly _like_ Akaashi. “Well… what if I said I did?”

“Out the way,” Tora said as he came through with a mop. “Aren’t you guys done? I wanna go home.”

They finished cleaning and moved to Kuroo’s office after dropping off all their dirty towels and aprons in the laundry pile. Kuroo took up some papers on his desk, flipping through them. “So? What’s your plan?” He sounded like he didn’t really want to know, but he was too curious not to ask.

“… Akaashi needs a job.”

Kuroo rolled his eyes. “He’s in an ED facility.”

“Afterwards,” Bokuto said, unbuttoning his jacket and wincing a bit at the way the ointment covering his tattoo had stuck to his jacket and peeled away. He’d have to clean it and reapply the healing cream as soon as he got home or Saeko would be furious. “He used to be a bartender. He can work here.”

“I don’t know him. I can’t give him Kenma’s position.”

“Then don’t.”

“Well I certainly can’t let Hinata have it.”

Bokuto shrugged, taking his jacket off and draping its across a chair. He rubbed his arm, eying the dark, inky lines and resisted the urge to peel at the skin. He’d had several sessions already, the next one would continue the color patterns, making them deeper and more shaded. Kuroo’s gaze flicked over it approvingly.

“It looks good.”

“The artist is really good.”

Kuroo hummed, dropping his papers with a sigh. He pulled the bandana from his hair, combing his fingers through it afterwards. “I’ve never even met him.”

“She’s a girl.”

“Not the artist,” Kuroo huffed. “The model.”

“Akaashi? Sure you’ve met.”

Kuroo shook his head, taking off his own jacket and pulling a hoodie off his chair. “No, I’ve _seen_ him. I’ve talked to him. I’ve never been introduced to him, and I’ve never officially met him.”

Bokuto thought back to each time they’d met, realizing it had only been the one time when Akaashi had rushed into the kitchen after Bokuto had gotten out of jail. They’d said less than ten words to each other. “Hm… that’s true. I didn’t realize… well, I can introduce you. You can even interview him once he’s home. I’m sure you’ll like him.”

Kuroo sighed, thumping his knuckles against the desk in frustration. “… I’ll think about it.”

“He’s really good. He’s smart. He and Hinata would get along well.”

“How long until he’s able to work, then?”

Bokuto shrugged. “I don’t know. Surely not … too much longer. It’s almost Christmas.”

“It’s barely into December.”

“Which is why I said _almost._ ”

“We’ll see when the time comes, okay? That’s all I can say.” He waved Bokuto away. “Go finish cleaning, I’ve got to finish the paperwork.”

Later, when all the kitchen was clean, the paperwork done, and the staff waiting for Kuroo to dismiss them, he came out of his office looking pensive and distressed. Bokuto noticed the little book he held in his hands, thumbing the pages methodically, trance-like. Something pricked in his mind, and he stood, frowning at Kuroo. The chatter at the table died slowly as Kuroo paced the small space in front of the long island where they gathered.

Finally, Bokuto asked, “What’s up, Chef?”

Kuroo stopped his pacing but his hands still thumbed the book’s edges. He stared at the kitchen, spending several silent moments inside his own head. Then he turned, looked at them all, and tossed the book on the counter. They all looked at it, and Taketora gasped, giddy. Bokuto leaned over to see it better and read the words printed at the top. He looked nervously at Kuroo, but not because he was worried about what Kuroo was proposing… but because of the mental health of his friend. The last time Kuroo had attempted to impress important critics, it hadn’t gone well. “Are you sure?”

“I think it’s time,” Kuroo said, nodding. He took a deep breath, rubbing his hands over his hair, then his pants, his fingers fluttery. He turned to face them fully, raising his voice. “The path to a Michelin star is hard. It’s one of the hardest things to do in our industry.” He moved over to stand beside the table, taking the book and tapping it. “Every restaurant in here shares a mastery of three things.” He was working through a speech that he’d clearly thought a lot about so no one spoke, just watched him with the rapt attention of parishioners learning how to save themselves from Hell.

“First and foremost, we need quality product. We’ve got that in spades—I’ve spent almost a year working up relationships with every booth at the market, local farmers, and any other source with freshness I can find. I don’t think we have a problem there.” No one disagreed. So he continued, “Second is a mastery of technique. I’m not worried about that, either. Every single person I hired, I hired for a reason. But if you have _any_ doubts about _anything_ we do or why we do it or how… ask. Ask someone. Ask me, or Bokuto. Ask whoever you think knows the answer. If we’re going to do this, we’re going to work together. Understand?”

They all nodded, the younger, less experienced cooks looking nervously at those that were on the line every night. Kuroo waved a hand at them as if washing away their worries. “If you have any problems, any at all, come to me. I’m here to teach you. I want what’s best for each and every one of you.”

When the young chefs all seemed comforted by this he nodded, satisfied. “Third… is consistency. Arguably, that is the most difficult. Michelin men come in secret, over several months, and always look for the same thing.” He jabbed a finger into the book to reiterate his point: “Consistency. Consistency in cleanliness”—he pointed at Oikawa and Saru—“and I mean that. If you see a _crumb_ on a table, pick it up. Check the bathrooms every ten minutes. Rumor has it they purposely leave things in there, or drop things on the floor, just to see how on top of things the front of house is.”

Saru and Oikawa exchanged looks and Oikawa said, “I’ll be sure to keep an eye on things.”

“Me too,” Saru said. He was the one person in the building with the most experience in restaurants, he’d been working in them all his life, so his dedication seemed to make Kuroo happy, take a tiny weight off his shoulders.

“Good. I’d like all the front of house to take a refresher course in your class, Oikawa. We’ll carve out the time. I don’t care when. The other form of consistency is, of course, the food. That’s _my_ job.”

Bokuto said firmly, “Our job. We’re all here.”

Kuroo looked at him steadily, studying him, then smiled. “You’re right. I’m only the last line of defense. But you all can make my job easier by doing it right to begin with. That means knife cuts, seasoning of stocks, roux consistency, all the _bases_ that make up our food. We all have to season everything correctly. That means tasting our food every _single_ time. Every little thing. It has to be the same tomorrow, the same next week, next month, next _year._ When we change the menu, we do it _perfectly_. No hiccups in timing, no burning things, nothing can be raw.” He punctuated his next words with jabs to the little book, “ _We - have - to be - perfect_.”

He was silent after that, meeting the eyes of each and every person, from Bokuto, and every chef on the line, to the commis chefs, dishwashers, Hinata, and Kenma, Lyanna, Oikawa, Saru… every person. For every person he made them a silent promise: he would support them, be there for them, teach them… pay them for their time and efforts.

In return, he asked them for their support of his dreams, no matter the cost.

They all made that promise.

“Good,” Kuroo said when he was satisfied. “Go home. We’ll get to work tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

When Kuroo walked into his apartment, he groaned in frustration. “Madame, _descends_! _Maintenant._ ” He snapped his fingers at her and she hunkered down on the counter near the fridge, staring at him so that he had to stalk over and snatch her up. “Stop that, now. You know you aren’t allowed in there. Where’s your papa?”

He looked around and saw the bathroom light flooding the hall. “ _Restes,_ okay? _Restes._ ” He set her on the couch, pointing at her for good measure. Then he made his way to the bathroom and poked his head in. “What’re you—oh.” He smiled when he saw Tsukki languidly soaking in the big clawfoot tub, glass of wine in hand and a half empty bottle in the floor beside him.

“Oh, you’re home,” Tsukishima said, smiling. His eyes were a little hazy, but he looked happy. “Can you help me out?” His long, slender foot lifted from the water, toes wiggling towards the faucet.

Kuroo chuckled, pulling off his jacket and t-shirt and dumping them in the appropriate hampers in the closet. “How long have you been in there?”

Tsukishima hummed a bit. He was a little more than tipsy, Kuroo thought. The high flush to his cheeks was a combination of the drink and the heat of the water. “Why? Do you want to join me?”

“No,” Kuroo said, even though he did. He pulled a small stool over beside the tub and reached in, pulling the plug to let it drain even as he turned the hot water on. Kuroo took the wine glass, taking a sip. “You look cozy, though.”

Tsukishima groaned at the heat of the water on his toes, wiggling down in the water with pleasure. “Very. Why’d you yell at the baby?”

“She was on the counter, trying to get in the fridge again.” He took another drink, swirling the water around with his hand.

“I told you,” Tsukishima said, waggling his finger at Kuroo in a false reprimand.

Kuroo chuckled, turning off the hot water and handing back the wine when Tsukishima made a grabbing hand for it. He picked up a washcloth and dipped it in the water, then ran it over the back of his neck, sighing with the heat of it. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Tsukishima raised one delicate eyebrow at him, laying his head back on the towel he had behind his head. “Something wrong?”

“No. Not yet, anyway.” He rubbed his face with the cloth, trying to get a little bit clean since he was too tired to properly bathe or shower. “My team and I have decided we’re going to work towards a star.”

Tsukishima raised his head, sitting up in interest. “Really?”

“Mhm-hmm…” Kuroo said. “I’m worried though… about myself. Last time I prepared for a critic I sort of lost my head.”

Tsukishima frowned, his lips in a little pout. “I remember. You didn’t come home half the time. When you did you slept only a few hours before you left again.”

Kuroo nodded. “I’m a bit obsessive.”

“You don’t say.”

Kuroo cut his eyes at him but couldn’t keep the smile off his face at the way Tsukishima leaned forward, hanging half out of the tub to be close to him.

“You want me to write you a sick note?”

Kuroo laughed, leaning down and kissing him. “No, I just need you to come get me sometimes. I’ll come home to you.”

“Can do.” Tsukishima smiled. He set down the glass on the floor, leaning on his hand to study Kuroo’s face. He swayed a bit, but he looked happy. “But… why are you worried? You’re a great chef.”

Kuroo shook his head, leaning on the tub edge, too. “It’s a _Michelin Star_ , _mon chaton,_ it’s difficult. I just wish…”

Tsukishima grinned at the nickname. “Stop that,” he said. “You don’t need to wish on the stars, Tetsurou, you _are_ the star. You make the stars. Do not fear them.”

Kuroo stared at him, stunned. He hadn’t realized quite how much Tsukishima believed in him. The openness and sincerity of his face, combined with his inebriation, made it so that Kuroo didn’t doubt his words in the least. A weight floated off his chest as he sat there with Tsukishima smiling at him, and he leaned forward, cupping his hand over his head and pulling his face up to kiss him, soft and slow.

“I love you,” he told Tsukishima. “You have no idea how much that meant to me.”

Tsukishima smiled at him, laying his head on his arm. “I do, and it’s un”—his face pinched as he slurred the word and had to start it over—“un…equi…vocally true. That’s why I said it.”

Kuroo laughed, stroking his hair, his chest full of love. “You’re too good for me.”

Tsukishima shrugged, closing his eyes and letting Kuroo pet him. “You really should join me.”

“Well, how could I refuse?” Kuroo smiled, kissing his head.The tub wasn’t _really_ big enough for the both of them, but that just meant they had to sit all the closer, Kuroo wrapping his arms around Tsukishima and holding him close as they finished the bottle of wine.


	34. remouillage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small trigger warning for this chapter. Akaashi talks a bit more about the sexual trauma but not in _great_ detail. But he does get emotional.

Standing in the middle of his apartment Monday morning, Bokuto looked around, satisfied with the packing. He’d packed all of three boxes and thought he could make the trip in downstairs in one go if he stacked them right. He was leaving his old camp bed—fuck it—and all the old, battered kitchen appliances that had traveled with him throughout his life. Nearly everything he owned that was important was at the brownstone already, anyway. The things he got now were just perfunctory—and to give his last rent to the landlord.

He picked up the giant bag with the remainder of his clothes and slung it over his shoulder, hefted the two remaining boxes and trudged down the three flights of stairs to the lobby. It was as dirty as it had always been, and he dropped his things in the corner when he noticed the taxi he’d called wasn’t there yet.

“Chuck,” he called as he made his way down the little hallway that led to the landlord’s apartment. “Yo, got your money here.”

Chuck poked his head out of his door, swiping a finger across his nose. Bokuto knew he’d caught him just as he was starting the morning with his favorite white powder. “You gone?”

“Yup,” Bokuto said, handing him a wad of bills. Chuck preferred cash, and Bokuto didn’t own a checkbook, anyway. “It was awful living here.”

“You were a shit tenant.”

“And you never fixed a goddamn thing I asked you to. See ya.” Bokuto smiled at him. They’d always hated each other, but never in a mean way. Chuck was an asshole, Bokuto knew how to deal with assholes, so they tended to smile when they spoke poison to each other.

Outside he smoked a cigarette while he waited for his cab—goddamn New York cabs, always fucking late—and saw, to his surprise, the man who he’d seen taking his coupons all those months ago was coming towards the building. He stopped him with a wave and said, “Yo, you here to steal more coupons?”

The man flashed him a wild smile. “No, you’ve been gone so long I guess we haven’t seen each other. I ended up moving in.”

“Oh, bullshit,” Bokuto laughed. “Not a good idea, man.”

“Trust me, I know. But it was this or a shelter somewhere. I’ll move out soon, just needed somewhere I could put away a nest egg with some savings.”

Bokuto shook his head. “Bummer. But, hey, you get your own coupons now. I’m Bokuto, by the way.” He held out his hand and the man took it. “Sorry I was such a shit to you.”

“Nah, nah, ’s all cool. Konoha, if you don’t remember.” He touched his chest. “Besides, you’ve been gone so long all your mail fell out your box and I took the coupons _anyway_.”

Bokuto laughed. “I figured. Well, you can have all the coupons from my box until the next sucker moves in.”

“You’re leaving?” Konoha eyed the boxes and bag at is feet, eyebrows raised.

“I don’t have much,” Bokuto told him.

“Clearly.”

They stood in an awkward silence while Bokuto finished his cigarette and they found nothing to talk about. Luckily, his cab pulled up soon after and Konoha helped him load the boxes into the trunk. “Well,” Bokuto said, “it was good to see you one last time.”

Konoha smiled. “You too. Hope you get better coupons wherever you’re off to.”

“God, me too. Moving in with my boyfriend and his friends and they live in the Village.”

Konoha’s eyes widened. “Shit, bro, that place’s expensive.”

“Tell me about it.” Bokuto laughed as he closed the trunk. “I feel like if we had had more time together, we might have gotten along.”

Konoha raised his eyebrows, grinning, but his eyes glittered with amusement. “You were the one that yelled at me.”

Bokuto scoffed. “Cause you were a thief! You should have asked.”

Konoha opened his mouth to reply, and Bokuto could see the sarcasm forming, but the taxi driver rolled down the window and shouted out at him, “Hurry the fuck up! I got shit to do.”

Bokuto extended his hand and Konoha shook it. “See ya, dude.”

Konoha said with a smirk, “Probably not,” and walked inside.

Bokuto watched him go, wishing he really could have been friends with him, regretting his harsh and too quick judgment. Maybe he’d come back and make friends with the snarky coupon thief.

Back at the brownstone, Bokuto carried his box and bag of clothes upstairs to Akaashi’s room ( _his and Akaashi’s room, now_?) and then the box of the few utensils he brought to the kitchen. It took him all of five minutes to unpack all his things. It took longer to actually start a load of laundry and search through the pantry to make sure he had all he needed to make dinner.

He checked the time on the oven and his heart fluttered a little faster—it was almost three. Which meant it was almost six. Which meant Akaashi would be able to leave. Which meant they could be together… eat dinner, cuddle, watch tv, talk. Really talk. Bokuto wondered if he should shower. Probably. So he went upstairs, rifling through his clothes until he found some that were clean and as he was going in the bathroom Mattsun called down from the third floor, “Is that you, Bo?”

“Yup!” Bokuto yelled back, going to the banister to look up.

“Good, thought it was a murderer. Are you making dinner?”

Bokuto hesitated, scratching a nail over the peeling varnish on the banister. “Yes, but you remember Akaashi’s getting to leave tonight, right?” He loved the fact that things were expected of him, now. He didn’t know why. He hadn’t even officially moved in until today but he’d been there for weeks. No one he’d lived with had ever shown him as much candor, respect, and friendship (and sometimes bitchiness when one or both of them didn’t get enough sleep) that Mattsun and Makki had both treated him with. He knew they’d be home if they didn’t call or text to say they wouldn’t be. Makki had done his laundry more often than not after learning that he would do it all in one big pile and take up the machines for a full day. Sometimes Bokuto would wake up from passing out on the couch after a long night of work to find the Tylenol and a big thermos filled with ice cold water left on the table by Mattsun. They were good people. They were good friends. And Bokuto loved them as much as he loved this house. Even without Akaashi with them the models accepted and adored Bokuto, treating him like family.

Above him, their bedroom door opened and Mattsun stepped out to lean down and look at him. “You want us to leave?”

Bokuto shrugged. “You don’t have to _leave_ but…”

“No, no.” Mattsun chuckled. “I get it. Whatever. Makki and I will stay out of your hair, don’t worry.”

“I’ll make you guys breakfast. Bacon, eggs, the works.” Bokuto promised. “Or I’ll go get danishes, coffee, anything you want.”

“Deal. We’ll let you know what we’re in the mood for.” Mattsun flashed him a smile then vanished into his room again.

Bokuto wondered if they’d go somewhere or simply stay in their bedroom all evening. If the latter, he would feel a little bad. The brownstone was large, after all, and Bokuto and Akaashi could go to the reading room on the second floor or _their_ bedroom instead of the living room. Honestly it didn’t matter where they were or what they did, Bokuto would just be happy to see Akaashi again.

 

* * *

 

 

It was almost sunset, the golden yellow light of the sun that glittered off the windows of buildings made even the dirty streets look less disgusting. Bokuto leaned against the lamp post fiddling with his phone—trying not to let his anxiety and nervousness make him light a cigarette. He knew Akaashi hated them and tried to keep it to a minimum when they were together.

He checked the time; it was six o’clock. Akaashi should be here by now. He debated crossing the street and going in to find him but knew that he should be patient. He'd been trying to better himself in the weeks since Akaashi had gone into the Center, figuring that if Akaashi was trying to be better, he could too. He'd been trying to keep his emotions in check, not snapping at Yuuki or Inuoka when they argued with him at work; being nicer to the bussers, even though half of them were little shits who needed a good smack or two; even trying to eat healthier, opting for protein shakes and home made lunch packs instead of canned foods and sugary cereals at midnight. He'd made it a point to go to the gym more often, making Hinata box with him for good measure, but that was mostly for the kid’s benefit and not his own, even though he enjoyed it. He felt a million times better over all, he had more energy than he knew what to do with, he’d actually trimmed down a bit, and he could actually see the outline of _abs._ It was wild.

The door across the street opened and Akaashi stepped out, but turned to talk to a woman that held the door for him. Bokuto had a moment, not even a second, of all-consuming jealousy, hating that anyone got to take this time away from them…before he realized she must be the therapist Akaashi had talked about. She was pretty, Bokuto thought, and had the passing dismayed thought: _how come she can help him and I can't_?

Then logic kicked in and he knew it was because she was trained in the difficult and delicate art of helping people and he was not.

Akaashi was saying something, then the door closed and he stepped down the stairs, seeing Bokuto across the street. Bokuto’s heart skipped at the smile on his face. But they had to wait—traffic was roaring past. Bokuto was jittery, bouncing on his toes as he kept his gaze firmly fixed on Akaashi until, like magic, he was practically running across the street and right into his arms.

Bokuto swept him up in a hug, pressing his face to his neck. “There he is, my little bird.” He didn’t know why he said it, but it felt right, and Akaashi giggled when he pulled away, smiling up at him.

“Does that make you big bird?” he asked, grinning, azure eyes shining in the golden light of the sun. The bruise on his cheek was dark by now, yellow and brown and mostly covered with make-up, but it still boiled his blood.

“It makes me happy.” Bokuto kissed him, holding him close, every thought in his head going blank except: _finally_. Akaashi melted against him, his arms looping around Bokuto’s neck and his hands finding Bokuto’s hair. He hugged Akaashi hard against him, still a bit overwhelmed. It wasn't that he hadn't seen him, he saw him _yesterday,_ but still. They were outside. They could cuddle and touch and talk without staff and strangers staring at them.

Except the strangers on the street that were passing by, but it was New York City, no one gave them a passing glance.

“Let’s go home,” Akaashi said against his shoulder, but making no effort to pull away.

Bokuto held him for a few moments longer then stepped back, taking his hand for good measure as he pulled him down the sidewalk. “Let’s catch a cab near the park. It's easier there.”

Akaashi smiled at him, and tucked his arm into Bokuto's, leaning against him and ducking his head, as if overwhelmed with just how happy he was. “It’s nice to walk without people watching me.”

“There are tons of people watching us right now,” Bokuto said, laughing.

“Okay, thanks, way to make this creepy.”

They giggled like children, giddy just being with one another, and by the time they found a taxi and made it home (and Bokuto still had trouble believing it was home. He hadn’t had a _real_ home since he’d left his parents’, just places he’d stayed and people he’d lived with) they were both breathless from too many stupid silly jokes and sweet little nothings said in whispers.

At the front door Akaashi paused on the stoop, watching Bokuto unlock the door and open it.

“What’s wrong?” Bokuto asked, turning back to look at him.

He shook his head a little. “I haven’t been home in a long time.”

Bokuto gave him a smile, reaching out a hand for him. “It’s not changed at all.”

“You’re here, now.” He moved up one step, taking Bokuto’s hand.

“We’re here. Together.”

He waited until Akaashi made his way to the next step then he opened the door, letting Akaashi into the brownstone first. He looked at the little pile of shoes in the entryway, then glanced back at Bokuto curiously.

“Makki has started mopping,” Bokuto explained.

“Weird,” Akaashi said, but toed off his shoes and pushed them to line up beside the others. “I like it.”

Bokuto had to actually untie his boots. “You like it now. Just wait until you forget one day when you come home late from work and Makki throws a wet mop head at you. It’s not fun. Especially when you’re asleep. And it hits you in the face.”

Akaashi laughed, shaking his head. “Once he sets his mind to something he’ll stick to it.” He gazed around, almost as if he was lost in a familiar part of the city and confused by his memories of it. “Are they here?”

Bokuto couldn’t tell if he wanted them to be or not. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I told Mattsun earlier that I’d make them breakfast if they gave us space… but I don’t know if they’ll stay in their room or if they left.”

“Good,” Akaashi said, turning to smile at him. “I love them, too, but I only get one day with you. I’ll see them all week.”

“So you get every evening, then?”

“If I want to, as long as I keep _heading in the right direction_.” He sounded like he was quoting his therapist. “She can ask me to stay, of course, if she wants to, or thinks I need to. But … she says as long as I keep being _open and honest_ then she’s willing to let me dictate if I’m in a good enough place to leave that day.”

“Well, I’m glad I get you all to myself for a while,” Bokuto said, smiling. “Give me two seconds, I’ve got to preheat the oven.” He went to the kitchen to turn the oven on, knowing it would take a few minutes to come to temperature. Then he hurried back, but seeing Akaashi running his hand over the back of the couch made Bokuto pause in the archway so as not to disturb him.

Akaashi was gazing around the room, letting himself draw in a long, slow breath and close his eyes, a smile touching his lips. “You forget how comforting the smell of home is.”

Bokuto felt himself smiling, watching him reacquaint himself with home. “I wouldn’t know.”

Akaashi turned to look at him. “You really never go home after being away for—I don’t know—even a week, and…” but he trailed off as he studied him. “No… guess not. You’re such a nomad.” But he didn’t say it like it was a bad thing—it was just a thing.

“Not anymore.”

“No,” Akaashi agreed with a little laugh. “Not anymore.” He came over and slipped his arms around Bokuto’s waist, laying his head on his chest. “I’m glad you’re here.” He tilted his face up as Bokuto hugged him back.

Bokuto leaned down to give him a quick kiss. Akaashi stood on his toes, so Bokuto kissed him again, spreading his fingers across his shoulders as Akaashi slipped his arms up his back. “I’m so happy to have you to myself,” he said after they’d parted, but Akaashi was leaning on him, and Bokuto wasn’t inclined to pull away.

They shared another long, languid kiss. For the first time in two months it wasn’t interrupted by Richard or any other rude Interrupting Igor that worked at that place telling them that they needed to keep their interactions _appropriate_. Bokuto made the most of it, letting Akaashi’s little sighs and minute shifts of his body dictate just where he allowed himself to touch. They were pressed close together, and even through the layers of their winter clothes Bokuto could feel how warm and soft Akaashi was. Being able to touch him for real truly made Bokuto appreciate how much the Center was helping him—Bokuto could tell that the bones of his ribs wouldn’t make valleys and mountains of his sides any longer, that his shoulders and his spine wouldn’t feel like the fragile bones of a baby bird anymore. He knew that Akaashi wasn’t shaking at his touch anymore. His kisses were so sweet… it had Bokuto wondering if he would ever taste anything else so perfect.

“Kou,” Akaashi whispered against his mouth, one of his hands stuck all the way in Bokuto’s hair, fingers splayed wide in an undeniable claim. “You promised me dinner.”

Bokuto actually whined a little. “Goddammit, Keiji, you can’t kiss me like that and expect me to _cook_ afterwards.”

His answering smile was a little wicked, and Bokuto’s belly clenched with desire. “You said all you had to do was put in the oven.” He released his hold, stepping back, gently pushing Bokuto’s hands away when he reached for him. “Go on, I’m hungry. It’s past dinnertime.”

Just hearing him saying those things made Bokuto’s entire body light and tingly with happiness. “Okay,” he said, beaming. “Two seconds, I’ll be right back.” He hurried off, feeling like he was floating, and just as he entered the kitchen the oven told him it was hot so he thrust the pan in and set another timer to remind himself to take it out. He didn’t usually need timers, but with Akaashi around he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t get properly distracted and burn the whole thing. What a disaster that would be.

Turning, he discovered that Akaashi had followed him into the kitchen, going to the large window that overlooked the tiny backyard and studying the falling snow that drew little melting patterns on the panes. “Did I tell you what happened to Michael?”

Bokuto moved to stand behind him, letting him know he was there with a little touch to the small of his back. Akaashi tilted his head back a little, and Bokuto knew it was okay for him to step closer and slip his arms around him, pulling him against his chest so Akaashi could lean on him. “No. Did you go back and finish the job?”

Akaashi snorted a laugh, one hand coming up to curl around Bokuto’s arm around his shoulders. “No, silly. It wasn’t a _job_ anyway. It was barely a scuffle and I’m not sure I won, anyway.”

“You got the better hit in, you won.”

“Still,” Akaashi tilted his head back to smile up at him, “that’s not what happened. Of course he was written up for that. He’d already had a few on his docket so they kicked him out. Someone heard a rumor that he’s in jail now.”

“Really?” Bokuto made a little annoyed noise in his throat. “Good. Hopefully someone else kicks his ass.”

Akaashi shook his head. “Violence begets violence, Koutarou. I’m genuinely sad that he didn’t get the help he needed.”

“Help to not be a fucking dick? Impossible. His momma shoulda taught him that. Know how my Mama taught me? With a _switch_ that I had to go and pull from the backyard myself.”

Akaashi laughed aloud, gently slapping his arm. “Oh, she did _not_. I’ve talked to your mom on the phone, remember? She’s the sweetest thing.”

“You never released an army of frogs in her bedroom…”

Giggling, Akaashi actually had to hold onto Bokuto’s arm to hold himself up. “ _What?_ ” He wheezed a little, pressing a hand to his mouth. “Oh, god, maybe you deserved it, then.”

Bokuto pressed a kiss to his cheek. “One day I’ll take you to meet her, m’kay? My whole family. My sister’s got a husband now, and she’s got like three kids.”

“I’d love that, Kou, I really would.”

The way that Akaashi looked at him, without a hint of any of the fears or frustrations that had plagued him, had Bokuto already planning a trip down there in his head. His family would love Akaashi. “We’ll go when the peaches are in season. Memorial Day or the Fourth of July. We’ve got a tree in our back yard, and we’ll pick them in the morning so my sister can make desserts, pies with ice cream, and cakes. Me and my dad spend all day cooking on the grill, and we always have games and the neighborhood kids come over!”

“That sounds great,” Akaashi said, looking like he genuinely meant it, was truly excited to go. He patted Bokuto’s arm to be released, and shucked himself out of his thick coat, hanging it on the rack beside the door to the patio. He paused, touching a fluttery silver scarf that had been hanging there for months. Something in the room… shifted. Bokuto didn’t know what, or why, but Akaashi’s face became a mask, a look that Bokuto recognized… and hated, because it meant he was hurting inside. Before he could speak, Akaashi asked, “How long?”

It took a moment, but when he realized what he was asking about dinner Bokuto said, “Twenty… twenty-five minutes.”

Akaashi nodded, and pulled the scarf from the rack, letting it run through his fingers like moonlight on rushing water. “I… I need to talk to you about something.”

Now Bokuto was nervous. He tugged at his sleeve, making sure the tattoo, that ended just below his elbow, was covered. “Alright.”

“Let’s go sit down,” Akaashi said, not looking at him, walking out and going back to the living room where he curled up on one end of the couch. Bokuto sat beside him, not touching, but close enough that he could if Akaashi needed him to. “Do you remember the night I called you? A long time ago?” he asked, already upset.

Bokuto frowned at him, not having to think too hard to remember that night. He’d gone to the bar to find Akaashi not where he expected him, had a long, stressful ride home worrying, then Akaashi calling him, telling him nothing, sobbing, sounding like he’d broken apart. “Yes,” he said, reaching and touching Akaashi’s hand where he tugged at his lip with his nails.

Akaashi hadn’t even noticed what he’d been doing, and clutched his fingers around Bokuto’s to stop himsel. He took a deep, difficult breath. His other hand clenched around the scarf, so hard his hand shook. “My therapist thinks I should talk to you more about… Terushima. She and I have talked about it a lot but I still … have a hard time talking about those nights. I still have bad dreams. I still remember…” He swallowed hard, closing his eyes. His face was a portrait in stillness, not a line to be found, and he spent several moments taking rhythmic, purposeful breaths. “I’ll never forget. And Willow thinks I should talk to you so that I don’t have to remember _alone_. But…” He squeezed Bokuto’s fingers, looking over at him with fear tilting his eyebrows and tugging at his mouth. “But I don’t know if I can tell you the things that happened to me. Not without hurting you, too.”

Bokuto watched his face and saw how much just this was hurting him. But the way his face pinched, the way his eyes searched Bokuto’s face, and the desperation with which he clung to his hand, made Bokuto think it wasn’t just because he didn’t want to talk about it, but also he worried about _his_ feelings. Bokuto didn’t blame him. He didn’t have the best track record with bad news. But he said, “If it will help you to talk about everything… I’ll listen. I mean… there’s not much else I can do to the bastard, anyway. No matter how much I want to.”

Akaashi shook his head. “I still can’t believe… you did that.” He made to pull his hand away, but Bokuto clutched at it.

“I’d do it again,” he said firmly. “I don’t regret it. But I should have done it sooner, before he had a chance to hurt you.”

Akaashi stared down at their hands. “It was going on for so long… We didn’t even know each other back then.” He sighed, making a conscious effort to relax, inhaling… and exhaling, slumping for a moment. “But that’s not… what I wanted to tell you.”

Bokuto waited, knowing that he didn’t need to rush Akaashi into speech. He stroked his hand with his thumb. Akaashi’s eyes followed the movement like a metronome.

“The night I called you was a particularly bad night,” he began, slowly, his voice sounding far away. “Normally… after one of these _events_ ”—he spat the word—“Terushima would put me up in a room somewhere. In one of the hotel rooms we were at, usually, and I’d sleep until very late the next day. The drugs he gave me were… strong.” He bit his lip, trembling a bit, but pushed on, as if he needed to get the words out now that he’d started them. “I would sleep for so long… and when I woke up my clothes from the day before would be folded and laid out for me. I’d change, and go home, and—god I feel so bad about this, too—I don’t know if Makki ever told you, but he hurt his shoulder _really_ bad a few years ago. He had to have surgery on it and everything. Torn … something or other. I don’t remember.”

Bokuto nodded. “I’ve seen the scar. He said it still bothers him.”

“It does… he still gets some good muscle relaxers for it that he takes when it gets really bad.”

“Oh…”

Akaashi shook his head, closing his eyes in shame. “Yeah… so, when I got home… I’d take one. He kept them in the bathroom, it wasn’t hard. He knew, of course, but he never said anything. I don’t know why. Willow says I should ask him but… that scares me, too.” He pulled at his hand until Bokuto relinquished it, then shoved it through his hair in distress and hooked his fingers on his neck so hard his knuckles were white. “But I would take a shower, so hot it hurt, I still remember how _much_ it hurt, how much I _needed_ it to hurt, and it fogged the mirror up so I couldn’t see… and considering how little I had in my stomach the drugs would kick in _hard_ and I’d sleep again. Usually until the next day. But I still didn’t get up. Not until one of them came and got me out of bed. Forced me to eat something. Got me to go to work.”

His voice was shaking, but he didn’t stop talking, and Bokuto didn’t know if he should hug him or comfort him or touch him at all. “But that night… was the first time he didn’t drug me. I don’t know why he didn’t. It was… unpleasant, to put it lightly.”

Bokuto’s fury leapt up in him, snarling, and he had to resist the urge to jump up and punch something.

“I couldn’t hide from what he did to me. What they did. And then… to make it worse, he made me leave right after. The _guests_ hadn’t even left, and _I had to walk through them_ on my way out the door. I was wearing this scarf… I remember because it was so… soft.” He dropped his hand and clutched both hands around it, twisting hard, tears dripping down his face and catching on his chin. Bokuto did reach out now, laying a palm on his shoulder, then catching him when he turned and pressed himself against Bokuto’s chest, his body wracked with spasms and his voice a thin, broken thing. “I called you—because I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to _do it_ anymore.”

It took Bokuto a moment to understand, but when he did he hugged Akaashi tighter, laying his cheek on his head. “Keiji…”

“There was this big bus, and I knew I could just—probably, anyway, just step out and hope…”

Bokuto kissed his hair, the air in his lungs searing white hot at just the _thought_.

“But… instead.” Akaashi sniffed, rubbing his face along Bokuto’s collar. “I called you. I don’t even remember what you said… but just hearing your voice made me think that I could take just one more step towards home. And then… before he ever hurt me again… you made it so that he couldn’t hurt anyone anymore. And now he’s gone. He’s locked up.”

Bokuto didn’t know what to say. Even if he did, he wasn’t sure the words wouldn’t come out without tears of his own. He hadn’t cried since he was a kid. He wasn’t sure he remembered how, he’d drowned them with cheap vodka so long ago. But the idea… the concept of a world without Akaashi in it made his throat close and the back of his eyes burn. “I’m sorry,” Bokuto whispered, unable to think of anything else, hugging him tighter.

“I don’t need you to be sorry,” Akaashi said, tucking his face up under Bokuto’s chin. “My therapist thinks … that the path back to loving myself starts with this. With talking to the people that I love and… all that… babble.” When he sighed, Bokuto felt how warm and moist his breath was. “I just need you to… be here. And let me talk when I can… and hold me when I can’t.”

Bokuto hugged him close. “Both. I’ll do both.” He pulled his head back, looking down at him—the tears that shone in his eyes, the flushed pink of his cheeks and the redness of his eyes. “Always. I love you.”

Akaashi smiled a little delicate smile. “It’s going to take a long time for me to be okay with everything in my life… but not you. From the moment we met you’ve made me happy. It’s always been you that made me want to better myself… and made me think that it was possible to love myself someday.”

Before Bokuto could respond the kitchen timer screeched at them, making them both jump with the suddenness of it. “Shit.”

Akaashi pulled away, wiping a hand over his face. “Go get it, I’m hungry.”

“Are you really?”

Akaashi smiled again, and this one was sweet, and sad, a byproduct of his broken heart and his desire to heal. “I really am. I told you I’ve been waiting on this for months.”

Bokuto stood, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to his forehead. “Are you alright?”

Akaashi nodded, reaching a hand up and sliding his fingers over Bokuto’s cheek. “When I’m with you, always.”

“Come on then, my little bird, dinner’s waiting.” He took Akaashi’s hand, remembering the very first night they met and how the fine bones of Akaashi’s hand had given him a sharp, intense desire to take care of him, to feed him, to make the beautiful creature his. At the time it had been a short term goal, as had nearly everything in his life been then. Take him home, maybe make something to eat, and learn the intimate details of his body.

That had never happened.

But everything that _had_ happened was so much more than intimate. He’d found the love of his life, his soulmate, and had gotten to know him in more ways that he’d ever imagined. Their relationship wasn’t perfect, but it was _theirs_ and they were melting their lives together so thoroughly that they would never properly become separated again.

When he served the ratatouille, Akaashi’s smile was like a child’s, so excited was he to finally have it again.

And when he took the first bite, Bokuto nearly cried again.

Because Akaashi did cry. He laughed, and he cried, and he said it was even better than before, and he had two whole servings.

 

* * *

 

He found the kitten nearly frozen to death at the backdoor of the restaurant as he was going in. It was a tiny black ball of fuzz, and Kuroo thought it _was_ dead. But his heart wouldn’t let him just leave it there. He scooped it up, wrapping it in his scarf, and carried it inside the kitchen. He spent a few frantic moments googling, then stood over the gas stove, the flame on high, letting the fire warm his fingers and the kitten. He rubbed frantically at its head, chest, back, belly, all over, with the pads of his fingers, trying to get the blood flowing.

It was dead.

He knew it was dead.

But still.

He stood there for over an hour, rubbing, praying, hoping…knowing it was futile.

But still. He couldn’t stop.

But _then_.

He saw its tiny pink tongue move. He gasped aloud, trying not to scream with relief. He wrapped it up tight to keep it warm, whispering to it, even as the little sounds it made broke his heart. It wasn’t even a _meow_ of any kind. It was too pathetic to be a squeak. It was one broken note, pitiful and the very definition of the word _dying_.

He’d come to the restaurant to work on payroll… but that could be done later. He bundled the kitten against his chest, turned off the stove, and rushed outside, shoving his phone against his ear with his shoulder. “Tsukki, hey, are you busy?”

On the other end of the line Tsukishima sounded hesitant, “No.”

“Good. I need you to go to the store for me. Get kitten food, something soft, some formula—I don’t know—maybe a tiny sweater.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Just do it, please.” He hung up, needing both his hands to keep rubbing at the kitten and keep snow out of it’s fur.

 

* * *

 

Luckily when he got home Tsukishima was already back. “You sounded panicked, so I hurried.”

“Thank you,” Kuroo said, coming over to the island, and finding that Tsukishima had already prepared one of the little bottles with formula. “ _Oh, thank you._ ”

It took several tries with the bottle for the kitten to understand, but when it did it sucked greedily at it, tiny drops of creamy beige milk covering it’s jaw as it drank too much. Kuroo set it on the counter, pulling the bottle back a bit to try and make sure it didn’t drown in formula, and Tsukishima leaned over, scrutinizing it.

“The sweater I found wouldn’t have fit it anyway.”

Kuroo glanced at him, laughed a little, then focused back on the kitten. “I thought it was dead, found him right outside the back door of the restaurant.”

Tsukishima shook his head in disbelief. “I’m surprised it isn’t dead. What are you going to do with it?”

“First, I’m gonna make sure it drinks this. In a few hours I’ll try and see if it can eat the wet food.”

“… and after that?”

Kuroo glanced up at him. “Madame needs a friend.”

“Oh, no. No, she doesn’t.” He shook his head again, this time in horror. “She’ll be _furious_.”

“She’ll be fine.”

Tsukishima raised his eyebrows. “You’re the one that has to deal with her brattiness when you learn how wrong you are. I’ll watch the kitten and leave her in here so she can knock all your stuff off your counter.”

“That’s a small price to pay to save a life.” Kuroo pulled the bottle away, letting the kitten take a few quick breaths. It wasn’t shaking anymore and it’s eyes, which had been wide, dull black discs, were slowly revealing a ring of the brightest sky blue as life flowed back into it. “I wonder if it’s a boy or a girl?”

“You’re seriously going to keep it?”

“I brought him back from _death_ , Tsukki, of course I’m keeping him. Look, he’s got a little white patch on his throat. And little white paws. It’s like a tuxedo.” He looked up and grinned at Tsukishima. “He’s a little gentleman.”

“You don’t know it’s a boy.”

“I’m going to call him Monsieur until we find out otherwise.”

Tsukishima groaned, pressing a hand to his face. “Madame—shit!” He jerked himself upright when he realized he’d used _Kuroo’s_ name for her. “ _Cera_ is going to hate this. She’s going to be mad for weeks. Good luck dealing with her.” The kitten was licking his lips, looking up between the two of them. Kuroo gave him back the bottle and Tsukishima sighed in resignation. “I guess he is cute.”

Kuroo winked at him. “Of course he is, we only keep cute things in this house.”


	35. soirée

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So when I wrote this I thought, "Gosh, 10k for one chapter? That's too much, too long, too many characters."  
> Then I thought: "Fuck it, it's a Christmas Party and it's a _gift!_ "  
> So here's a HAPPY 10K CHAPTER FOR ALL OF YOU. A LATE CHRISTMAS PRESENT FROM ME.

The snow had been falling all day in fat, white flakes that Akaashi liked to feel melting on his cheeks. He liked the snow, it made everything soft looking with rounded corners and muffled sounds. He liked it especially when he was walking down the street hand in hand with Bokuto.

He’d gotten special permission to leave to go to the Christmas party at _je sais pas_ (which he had to have Bokuto write down before he figured out how to spell and fill out on the form). It was a few days before Christmas, but he was getting an extra day with Bokuto, and that was as good a gift as any. They’d promised each other they wouldn’t exchange gifts, given everything that was going on, but Akaashi had a sneaking suspicion that Bokuto would ignore that rule, due to the little smile he got whenever they talked about meeting on Christmas day.

“I’m happy you’re coming,” Bokuto said, pulling his hand away so he could put it over Akaashi’s shoulder and hug him close as they walked.

Akaashi looked up at him, leaning his head on his shoulder. “Me too. It’ll be fun to finally meet all these crazy people you tell me about.”

“They’re gonna _love_ you. But if anybody gets drunk and flirts with you you tell me, okay?”

Akaashi laughed. “You’re joking.”

“Mhm….” Bokuto pretended to think. “No, you’re right. None of them are as handsome as me.”

“Oh my god,” Akaashi said, smiling. Bokuto kissed his head, and they walked for a while in silence, only the crunch of their shoes accompanying them. “I’m nervous.”

Bokuto looked down at him, eyebrows raised. “What? Why?”

Akaashi reached up and took Bokuto’s hand, twining their fingers together and laying it on his chest for comfort. “It’s not the people… I’m used to big parties and big groups of strangers… but…” But. He couldn’t figure out how to tell Bokuto how much he was scared of all the food that would be there. He hadn’t had to deal with this sort of situation yet. Being around _so much_ and being expected to eat it and it wouldn’t be structured or planned and he had no idea what would be there. He was scared he was going to mess up… but he didn’t know how to tell Bokuto that. Because Bokuto thought he was better than that and he wanted to live up to his expectations.

Bokuto stopped, looking at him worriedly. “If it all gets to be too much… just squeeze my hand.” He demonstrated by doing it. “We’ll go outside. We’ll go to the walk-in. Somewhere. If you want to leave, we’ll go.”

Akaashi was quiet a moment, then he nodded. “Alright… I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Are you going to be okay?”

“Yes. And if that changes, I’ll tell you, I promise.”

Bokuto turned him, pulling his arm away so he could lay both hands on his shoulders. “I mean it. Don’t try to make yourself do anything that makes you uncomfortable just for me.”

“Koutarou, really. I’ll be okay.”

Bokuto searched his face, then touched his chin with his fingers and pulled him up to kiss him.

“Come on,” Akaashi said when he pulled away. “We don’t want to be late.”

They continued walking, Bokuto pulling him close to keep him warm, and when they arrived at the restaurant Bokuto let him in and the overwhelming smell and warmth of the place was both comforting and nerve wracking. He could tell immediately that there was food _everywhere_ just by the scent of it all: the sharp tang of meats and the warm headiness of fresh baked breads. Soft Christmas jazz played from somewhere overhead, just loud enough to fill the background space.

Akaashi shivered at the sudden change in temperature then nearly jumped out of his skin when a man walked up to him, arms wide as if to hug him.

“Hello!” the man said, broad smile plastered on his face. He had perfectly coiffed fluffy brown hair and a face that anyone in the modeling industry would kill for.

Bokuto was right beside him, intercepting—thank God—putting an arm around Akaashi. “Oikawa what the fuck are you wearing?”

The man—Oikawa—stopped in his tracks, his smile stuck on his face that shifted to a sarcastic _why do I put up with you_ tilt. He was indeed wearing a sweater that almost blinded them both, literally. It was not only bright in color and statement with green and red reindeer and Christmas trees—but also with little white blinking lights all over it. “Don’t you like it?”

“It’s disgusting,” Bokuto told him.

Oikawa poked his lip out in a pout, dropping his arms with a loud clap to his sides. “Well you’re an _ass._ I love this sweater.” He flicked his gaze to Akaashi. “You must be his boyfriend. He never shuts up about you.”

Akaashi gave Bokuto his best _oh my god I hate you you embarrass me_ look. “Yes… I’m Akaashi.”

“Oikawa,” he said. “Let me take your coats.”

They handed them over and Oikawa vanished into a small side room to store them. Akaashi looked Bokuto over approvingly. “You clean up well. I don’t think I’ve seen you in anything other than work clothes and your old jeans and ratty t-shirts.”

Bokuto picked at at stray string at the hem of the dark navy button up cardigan he wore. He had a white shirt underneath it, jeans with no holes in them, and it all looked _clean_ to top it off. “Mattsun went through my clothes after he saw what I was going to wear.”

Akaashi laughed. “I wish I could have seen that.” Mattsun in a fashion frenzy was hilarious. He had the intentions of Tan France but the delivery of Gordon Ramsay—swearing at you and throwing things at you until you put on what he deemed appropriate. At least he took half a second to explain _why_ he picked what he did.

“It was definitely something,” Bokuto said, reaching out a hand and taking Akaashi’s. He pulled him deeper into the restaurant, which had been decorated with little white string lights, the tables had tiny fake Christmas trees on them, the napkins were colored red and green, and the bar had been wrapped up with colorful lights. There were a few people at the bar already, a bunch of others loitering around the room and the buffet style table that had been set up, and when they walked up to the bar several people turned to Bokuto with loud and cheerful greetings.

Akaashi hung back, pulling his hand from Bokuto’s so he could keep a safe distance from all the strangers. One of the them, a tall dark haired man, looked back at Akaashi and slipped off the stool he was sitting at.

But he wasn’t a stranger.

It was Bokuto’s boss.

Akaashi’s brain stopped; he had no idea what to say. He was looking at him like he wanted to chop Akaashi up and serve him as tomorrow’s special.

But then Bokuto turned around and was beside him, sliding his arm around his shoulders and holding him against his side for safety. “Kuroo!” Bokuto said, cheerful as a puppy. “I want you to officially meet Akaashi. Akaashi, Kuroo.” He waved a hand between them, grinning.

Kuroo actually smiled, reaching out a hand and when Akaashi took it in greeting he said, “I feel like I know you already.”

 _Doubt it_. “Same,” Akaashi said, forcing a smile back. He didn’t want to _not_ like Bokuto’s boss, it’s just that they were constantly at war over his attentions and they both demanded they win. They both _had_ to win, sometimes, and Bokuto would tear himself apart when he couldn’t make the both of them happy at the same time.

Bokuto put an arm around Kuroo now and hugged them both so hard they made little pained noises. “This makes me _so_ happy!”

“Alright, you brute, you’re hurting me,” Kuroo complained, tugging himself away. He pulled on the cuffs of his dark red shirt to straighten the sleeves and glanced at Akaashi, looking him over with scrutiny. “No wonder you’ve got him wrapped around your pretty little finger.”

Bokuto puffed his cheeks out. “Does not.”

Kuroo and Akaashi looked up at him with dubious expressions because even Akaashi knew that he only had to mention the smallest inkling of desire for anything and Bokuto would make it happen.

Huffing in aggravation, Bokuto pulled away and folded his arms. “Know what? Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.” But by the grin that slid onto his face made it was clear he was joking. “Do you want a drink?” he asked Akaashi, trying to steer the conversation away.

“Can’t drink anymore.” _Yet another Rule._

“Oh.”

Akaashi patted his arm, and was immediately worried when his jaw tightened momentarily, as if in pain. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” Bokuto flapped a hand, then snatched Akaashi’s wrist and kissed his hand. “Come on, do you wanna meet everyone else?”

Akaashi said he did, and Bokuto pulled him to the other end of the bar. He met the hostess Lyanna, who was in a ridiculously lovely green and red dress that looked like a tree. It shouldn’t have been beautiful but it was with her luxurious raven dark hair curling down over her shoulders. She’d twined mistletoe and holly flowers in the crown of her hair in a little braid and Akaashi immediately wanted to get his camera and photograph her.

He’d already met Hinata, who greeted him with an exuberant smile and introduced him to his boyfriend Kenma, who Akaashi recognized as the small man he’d pushed past his first visit here. Kenma seemed to remember too because he sat sullen and moody on his stool.

“He doesn’t like parties,” Bokuto whispered to Akaashi as they moved down the line. Beside Lyanna was their fish cook, Fukunaga, who was quiet and reserved upon meeting but Akaashi knew from Bokuto’s stories that when he spoke he was a madman.

Taketora stood from his stool and wrapped Akaashi in a big bear hug and declaring, “Any friend of Bo’s is a friend of mine!”

Bokuto said, “He’s my boyfriend.”

“Dude, I’m not into that kind of sharing, don’t be weird.”

Akaashi agreed, and they moved on. They met the tallest man Akaashi had ever met in his life, and he’d met a _lot_ of tall people. “This is Russia,” Bo said, motioning to him.

The man frowned at him. “My name’s—”

“Shhh, Russia, it’s okay, embrace it.”

Akaashi jabbed him in the side with his elbow. “Stop being rude.” He looked at the tall man with raised eyebrows.

“Lev,” the man said. “I work in the pastry shop with Mor—Yakku— Yaku.” He had interrupted himself twice when introducing the shorter man beside him, because the shorter man glowered at him for almost using the first two. Yaku was in a bright red turtleneck, and Lev wore a matching bowtie that Akaashi would have sworn was intentional—subtle, but _intentional_.

“Pleasure,” Akaashi told them both. “Bokuto talks all the time about how good your pastries are.”

Yaku snapped a horrified and angry look to Bokuto. “He’s not supposed to eat them at all.”

“O-oh…”

Bokuto wasn’t fazed. In fact he looked gleeful. “I’m _tasting_.”

“ _Seventeen danishes is not a taste_.”

Lev put a hand on Yaku’s shoulder to calm him. “Now’s not the time…”

Yaku glared at Bokuto, but Bokuto only smiled back at him. “Yeah, _Mori_ , it’s Christmas. Lighten up.” He put his arm around Akaashi, still grinning, and pulling him away as Yaku looked like he was about to really start in on him.

Someone else came into the restaurant just then, saying loudly, “Why is it so _cold_!?”

The man that came in beside him told him, “It’s December. I told you it was freezing.”

“You didn’t say _how cold_ it was.”

The man huffed. “It’s _snowing_.”

Oikawa was taking their jackets, smiling between them. “Our poor baker, choosing fashion over function.”

“Hush up,” the first man said, shaking out his hair after taking off his beanie that had a big red ball on top of it. He had a big red and green bag on his arm, and he moved towards the rest of the room with it in tow. “Bokuto! Here, I got you something.” He stopped when he saw Akaashi, and beamed. “Oh, you must be his model! I’ve got something for you, too.” He plucked out two little red plastic Christmas bags and handed one to each of them. “Cookies. You don’t have pets, do you?”

Akaashi blinked, staring at the little bag in his hand. “Uhm… no.”

Kuroo moved over to them, taking the bag that Bokuto had in his hand and looking at it. “Suga, what did you do? I told you to go home and rest, not bake more. You made half the shit on the table.”

Suga’s partner said to him, “See, I told you.”

“Shut up,” Suga quipped back at him. “I wanted to make them. Here’s yours, boss.” He handed Kuroo his own little bag, which was green instead of red. “They’re treats for your little kitties!”

Bokuto took his bag back as Kuroo opened his and stared into the little bag. “Really?” he sounded intrigued, and stuck his nose in the bag to smell them. “What’s in it?”

“Tuna, bananas, oat flour… it’s good for animals. Logan liked them.”

Akaashi suddenly realized who this was—he was the one that had the dog, and was always blowing up Bokuto’s group chat with pictures of it. He’d seen the pictures—the dog _was_ cute. “Oh, I’ve seen your dog,” he said, then blushed when he realized he said it aloud and had to finish his sentence with all eyes on him. “He’s the big German Shepherd isn’t he? He’s really cute…”

Suga’s face, which had been carefully composed, ready to argue about his beloved pet, broke into an all-consuming grin. “Really?” He turned around and smacked the other man that had come with him. “See, I told you we should have brought him.”

Kuroo said, “You’re not allowed to bring your _dog_ to work, Suga, for the seven hundredth time!”

“He’s a _good dog_ , Kuroo.”

“He’s still a dog.”

Kuroo shook his head. “If I can’t bring my cat—either of my cats—you can’t bring your dog.”

Bokuto leaned down to whisper to Akaashi, “Remember all the times I have to turn my phone off? It’s cause of these two idiots.”

Akaashi giggled, leaning against him and looking down at the little bag in his hands. The cookies were lovely, a work of art in and of themselves. The were sugar cookies with pretty decorations on top, all detailed Christmas things painstakingly piped. Candy canes, gingerbread houses, fully decorated trees, little colorful presents.

Bokuto touched his cheek to Akaashi’s head. “If you don’t want them, I’ll eat them,” he said gently.

“No,” Akaashi told him. “They look good.” They _did_. Akaashi didn’t know if he’d be allowed to take them back to the Center. Probably not. Did that mean he had to eat them now? The thought of all that sugar… bad. Maybe just one. He could eat one. Then he’d give the rest to Bokuto and tell him to take them to Mattsun and Makki.

He looked up as Suga introduced the other man he’d brought to the group at large as Daichi, who was a fireman. No wonder the man looked like he could crush an iron bar with the biceps not so very well hidden under his cardigan.

Kuroo was eyeing the other bags that Suga was giving out, getting more and more distressed. “Suga! How long did this take you?”

Daichi said, “He’s been working on them all day, and made the cookies yesterday.”

“And you’ve been _here_ baking for days. What the shit Suga—take a damn vacation day!”

Suga laughed. “You have no right to talk, do you ever stop?”

“That’s not the point,” Kuroo said, just as a blond man with glasses who sat at the bar sipping a drink spoke up:

“You both need vacations.”

Kuroo huffed, looking over at him. “I make you delicious dinners, don’t you start with me.”

Helpfully, Bokuto told Akaashi, “That’s Tsukishima, Kuroo’s boyfriend. He’s also a food critic.”

Akaashi raised his eyebrows. “Scandalous.”

“You’ve really no idea,” Bokuto said, grinning. He looked over his shoulder, scanning the room. “There’s a few people not here yet, so do you wanna get some food?”

Akaashi’s stomach twisted nervously. He did—he was sure everything would be delicious if it was made by Bokuto and his co-workers; but he also decidedly _didn’t_ want to get food _._ He didn’t know what there was, or if he’d even like it, or if he was supposed to take some of everything or be polite since he was a guest. He didn’t know the etiquette around these people and to top if off he didn’t see any cutlery, and the idea of finger foods still bothered him. It was the one thing he’d struggled with more than anything, the idea of juices and butter and textures coating his fingers. It made him shudder a little at the thought.

Bokuto was watching him, though, brows pinched with worry, trying to search his face for signs of distress so Akaashi said, trying to dissuade him, “Sure. Yeah.”

But Bokuto was still for a long moment, watching him.

“What?” Akaashi asked, the flutter of nerves in his belly almost painful now.

“Come here,” Bokuto said, taking his hand and guiding him carefully through the throng of people. He took Akaashi through the kitchen door, where the smell of food was different, cleaner and more distinct. He parked Akaashi at a long counter beside the grill and ranges. “Stay here, okay?”

Akaashi glanced around, liking the clean white walls, the shining silver and black equipment, the hum of the ranges. “Why?”

“I’ll go get us some food, and you don’t have to stand around and eat it. Or eat it at all, if you’re too…” He waved a hand. “You know, you can take your time. And not have to talk with people you don’t know.” They were quiet while they looked at each other, Bokuto expectantly and Akaashi nervously. “Is that… not okay?” Bokuto asked, sounding worried.

Akaashi glanced away, twisting the plastic tie around the cookie bag. “No that’s… that’s good. Thank you.” It was a little bit of a relief, the choices of what foods to pick up in a crowd taken away from him.

Bokuto set his cookie bag on the counter and leaned close to kiss his cheek. “I’ll be back.” And he stepped out of the kitchen, leaving Akaashi alone in the vast space.

He looked around, admiring the equipment, and slipped off the stool to get a better look. Everything was so clean looking, so he ran his fingers over the flattop, cool and smooth, then the bumpy cast-iron slats of the range. It was so immaculate nothing came off on his fingers. Bokuto hadn’t been joking when he said they spent at _minimum_ two and three hours every day cleaning. The lights were low and warm, and he wanted to run his finger along the top of them to see if they dusted up there, too. Probably. Kuroo seemed anal about his kitchen.

“Excuse me,” someone said, making Akaashi jump and whirl around like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. A tall, brown haired man in a sharp cut suit frowned at him. “What are you doing here? Who are you?”

Akaashi hesitated, stammering, “I’m just—waiting on… Bokuto…”

The man made an _ah_ motion with his head. “Oh, you’re the model.”

“Why does everyone say that?” Akaashi grumbled, moving back to the long counter.

The man came over and set down his box, looking him over. “Well, he only said it once, like months ago, but just looking at you you look like one.”

Akaashi looked away, trying not to pout and failing.

“I just mean… when you mention Bokuto it’s pretty obvious you’re the one that he’s been fawning over for months,” the man said, seeing that he’d upset him. “You’re really pretty and you dress really nice, too. Not many here do.”

“You look pretty dapper yourself.”

The man smiled, and extended a hand. “I’m Saruki, they call me Saru. My job title isn’t technically _head of the dining room_ , but that’s what I am. It’s supposed to be Oikawa’s position, but I’m better than him.”

Akaashi smiled nervously, taking his hand and shaking it. “Akaashi.”

“Why’re you in the kitchen? The party’s out there.”

“Bo brought me here…”

Saru raised one eyebrow curiously, but hefted his box again. “I’m surprised. They don’t like people behind their line. Try not to break anything.”

“I don’t think I could even if I tried.”

Saru smiled, nodded to him, and left the kitchen. Akaashi took a deep breath, shivering a little. He didn’t realize it was going to be so hard to meet so many people. He was used to social parties, the agency had had them all the time, pandering to clients and photographers. He was used to trying to sell himself to them for jobs, but this was not the same.

And then Bokuto was back, pushing through the door with several plates filled with food. “Alright, here we go!” he said excitedly, coming to the counter and setting them down. “Let me go get—” He vanished down a side hallway while Akaashi blinked after him.

Akaashi went over, peering at the plates. There was a little bit of a lot of stuff. It was quite a variety: little tarts shaped like flowers and filled with something green and white, shiny oysters with some tiny red things that he thought could have been roe or peppercorns but was too nervous to eat one and find out, a miniature sandwich that smelled like shrimp, meatballs covered in cheese sitting atop small pieces of thick bread, something that looked like a piece of a pie, green avocado smelling dip, meat wrapped in pastry, an orange soup, and several types of thinly cut, crispy looking bread.

That didn’t even include the dessert plate.

He sat back on his stool, staring at it all, twisting his fingers together and trying not to pick at the skin around them or chew on his lip. He knew his nervous ticks and he had been making a conscious effort to stop ruining the delicate skin.

“Okay,” Bokuto said, coming back with a cup filled with cutlery. He dragged another stool over and sat across from him, setting the cup between them. “I almost forgot,” he explained, motioning to it. “You don’t like touching food, do you?”

Akaashi shook his head, reaching for a fork, the knot in his stomach untwisting the tiniest amount at Bokuto’s thoughtfulness. “So… what is it all?”

Bokuto smiled, taking his own fork and pointing to the plates with it. “Does anything look good?”

Akaashi frowned at him. “Of course it does.” He sighed, looking over them, trying to figure out _how_ and _where_ and _if_ he could begin. “What—what did you make?” It was a good a place as any.

Bokuto grinned, and pointed to the sandwiches, explaining, “Shrimp remoulade sliders—made with tarragon, lemon, dijon, and mayo. I tried to make the bun but Yaku wouldn’t let me in.” He moved the fork to the flower tartlets. “And spinach and goat cheese tarts. Fillo dough, goat cheese Kuroo and I found at the market a few days ago, and, obviously, spinach. It’s got a hint of garlic and shallots, and a nice handful of parmesan.”

Akaashi watched his face as he spoke, seeing just how excited he was to share this with him. So he asked, “Which do you like better?”

Bokuto grinned at him. “I’d like to ask you that.”

“Oh. Right, of course.” When Bokuto turned the plate so that the tartlet was close to him he picked it up and Bokuto raised his eyebrows. “It’s bite sized,” he muttered. But also, he was trying to make himself follow some of the rules from the Center. _Challenge foods_. They’d have a few a week, to push themselves and try that much harder to enjoy things they thought they never could. He tried not to visibly hesitate, and ate the whole thing in one bite, but it _was_ small, so that wasn’t too bad. It was a bit sour, once he got past the crunch of the pastry, but the sweetness and soft texture of the spinach contrasted it very nicely, and the fragrance of garlic at the end made him want to take another bite. He said, “That’s really good.”

Bokuto looked ecstatic and popped another one into his mouth. “I’m glad you like it! I made them this morning, and had Kuroo finish them in the oven while I went to change and pick you up. Oh, here,” he said, pulling a cloth napkin from under the cutlery cup and sliding it over to him. “I forgot, sorry.”

Akaashi took it gratefully, rubbing his fingers over it. “When did you get here this morning?”

“Oh, I don’t know—five maybe. Worked for a few hours then went home.”

“Did you have service last night?”

Bokuto dipped his fork into the filling of a tart, licking it off and looking amused. “Of course.”

Akaashi frowned at him. “How much did you sleep last night, then?”

“Like… I dunno, three hours?” Bokuto said, then blanched under Akaashi’s scowl. “I’m _fine_. It was just one night—”

“Bull.”

“—and besides we’re off today so I can go home and sleep all I want. Here, try this one.” He moved the little slider sandwich towards Akaashi, trying to make him forget about how much he didn’t take care of himself.

Akaashi continued to give him a frustrated look for a few moments before he looked down at the food. _Why did it have to be a sandwich?_ He hated sandwiches. The insides were fine, but all the bread and the actual idea of them frustrated him. He hated that the insides could come sliding out the sides at any time, and that he had to take big bites of them, and usually there was _something_ on them he didn’t like but he had to eat it anyway because once something was put _on_ a sandwich it was impossible to scrape it off completely.

Bokuto was watching him, and reached over to tear it in half, which Akaashi gasped at. “There, you can just eat the filling if you want, since Yaku wouldn’t let me make the bread. It’s just brioche, nothing special,” Bokuto said, then stuffed the half he’d taken into his mouth in one big bite.

Akaashi shook his head, but couldn’t help smiling. Bokuto was trying to help him and not make him feel guilty. He took the fork and picked out a piece of what he recognized as shrimp, eating it carefully. Creamy sweet, crunchy, a bit tart from the mustard. “Delicious,” he declared to a grinning Bokuto. “As always.” He picked at the insides, eating small forkfuls until it was gone. That was the thing—Bokuto had never made something that was bad, so Akaashi trusted that he could eat whatever Bokuto put in front of him. Sometimes it scared him, but then he could just look at Bokuto’s happy face and feel a bit better.

Bokuto went through the rest of the food, explaining it all, and who had made what. Everyone had made something, it seemed. Kuroo had been right to chastise Suga, who had made four or five of the dishes that all looked complicated. The orange soup ended up being a lobster bisque, still steaming hot, and Akaashi had _loved_ that, the flavors were complex and rich, and Bokuto had actually forgone his portion to let Akaashi finish it. He’d made it a point to feed Akaashi the oyster that Fukunaga made, saying _that’s how couples are supposed to do it, Keiji_ , and it turned out the red things were some sort of champagne chilled into little red balls by some sort of magic of gastronomy that Bokuto explained but Akaashi didn’t understand.

Akaashi _tried_ everything, even if he didn’t eat all of it. He felt good, he liked everything, and he wasn’t feeling too full or sick, and everything was looking up in the world. Maybe he really was doing better and Willow was right. He’d _never_ tell Bokuto that his favorite thing was the lobster bisque that Kuroo had apparently spent several hours making. Just a little white lie, that was fine. Even though he wanted to take that home. He was running his spoon around the bowl and trying to think of a way to ask Bokuto if he could get more of it and not hurt his feelings while Bokuto talked about the different breads: “ _Focaccia,_ really? What a name. It’s just flatbread, I don’t understand. That’s why people get so confused... just call it flatbread. Or pizza crust, that’s what it is.”

He held up a square of the bread in question, which was one of the things Suga made: fresh bread covered in drizzles of olive oil, rosemary, oregano, parsley, and thin sweet red onions. “This is pizza. It doesn’t have sauce, or cheese. But it’s a pizza.”

Akaashi looked up, seeing Kuroo and his boyfriend come into the kitchen at that moment. Kuroo said, “Don’t let Suga hear you say that.”

Bokuto turned, seeing them, then rolled his eyes. “Oh I told him to his face.” He took a bite, the crunch so loud Akaashi felt it in his teeth. “But then I told him it was delicious, so whatever.”

Kuroo grinned, moving to stand next to them. “You’re not eating your desserts?” he asked, reaching down to try to take one of the little cheesecakes, then jerking his hand away when Bokuto attempted to stab him with his fork.

“Don’t touch!” Bokuto declared, waving his fork around like a sword. “Get your own.”

Kuroo huffed. “Fine, I will.” He looked between them. “I just wanted to make sure you were alright.” He said it directed towards Bokuto, but something about the way he and Tsukishima looked at him made Akaashi realize… they knew. Of course they did, he thought, Bokuto had stayed with Kuroo for a while, he’d said. It would only make sense that Bokuto had turned to his friend in his hour of need… and said friend had no reason to hide Akaashi’s problems. He probably told everyone.

It made him squirm uncomfortably. “Sorry,” he said, not really able to meet either of their eyes. “I just …” But he didn’t _know_ how to explain that the idea of eating in front of so many strangers right now scared him senseless, and that Bokuto knew that, and had brought him back here to protect him.

Kuroo shrugged, relieving him of an answer. “It’s fine, don’t worry. So,” he cocked his head towards Akaashi, raising his eyebrows and grinning, “I’ve been told that you will be in need of a job sometime in the near future.”

Akaashi blinked at him, then gaped at Bokuto, appalled and a bit embarrassed. “You—”

Bokuto held his hands up, smiling. “I told you I’d ask. I didn’t say when.”

Kuroo laughed, waving a hand. “It’s fine. You’ve seen our bartenders. One could care less and the other looks like he snuck in. I don’t know you… but Bokuto seems to think you’d be good at the job, and I trust him. So, when you’re ready, we’ll discuss it, okay?”

Akaashi blinked at him, stunned. “T-Thank you,” he managed, a little relieved. “That means a lot to me.”

Tsukishima asked, “Are you any good?”

“Hey,” Bokuto frowned at him. “That’s—”

But he never got to say what it was, because the kitchen door opened and they all watched Oikawa flit through the kitchen to the back door, making weird sounds that could have been excitement or irritation. He opened the big back door and poked his head out.

Kuroo squinted at this strange show and called out, “What are you doing?” But Oikawa ignored him, still looking out the door for something, and Kuroo grumbled in aggravation. “Oikawa! You’re letting the cold in.”

He flapped a hand at Kuroo. “Alright, _mom_. One second”—and then to someone outside he said, “Oh there you are! Come on, hurry hurry.”

He held open the door and someone else stepped in, carrying a huge box that tinkled with what sounded like glass inside it. “I can’t hurry, do you know how heavy this box is?” the man said to Oikawa, shaking his head to get snow out of his spiky hair.

Oikawa said, touching his arms and guiding him towards the counter, “And you look _so good_ carrying it, Hajime.”

Akaashi and Bokuto moved their plates out of the way as the man put the box down where Oikawa indicated. After he’d set it down the man said, “Sorry I’m late.”

Oikawa stood on his toes to kiss his cheek. “That’s fine. Did you get enough?”

“I think so—there’s more in the car if I didn’t.”

“You’re perfect,” Oikawa said to him. Then he turned to the others. “May I present my husband, Hajime Iwaizumi.”

Kuroo raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t take his name then?” He sounded only a _little_ mocking, sounding like they’d had this conversation before.

“No, I had my own—oh, shut up, Kuroo! Or I won’t give you your Christmas present.”

Iwaizumi pulled out a slick black pocket knife and cut open the box. “You’re Kuroo? I want to apologize for him, he’s really shitty while I’m traveling for work.” He pulled out a bottle of wine, a dark green bottle with a fancy looking white label and handed it to Kuroo.

“You must be gone all the time then,” Kuroo said, peering at the label with Tsukishima looking over his shoulder at it. “This is _very_ nice wine.”

Oikawa muttered, “Rude, Kuroo, how could you? I’m a treasure and a half.”

Iwaizumi ignored him, though, pulling out another bottle and glancing between Bokuto and Akaashi until Oikawa motioned to Bokuto and he, too, got a bottle. “It is. I got it on one of my business trips, and Oikawa said it would make a good gift for you all.”

Bokuto frowned, confused, and showed the bottle to Akaashi: _Napa Valley_ was easily read, and Akaashi was impressed. That was an extremely good region for wine. “Wait,” Bokuto was saying, “what do you do?”

Iwaizumi closed the box, pocketing his knife. “I travel the country—”

“The world,” Oikawa said.

“I’ve only been to Italy, and only once. But I travel around looking for wine, new wine, old wine, good wine. I develop good relationships with vintners and wineries so that Oikawa here can bring the good stuff back to the restaurants.”

Kuroo looked impressed and said to Oikawa, “That’s why you’ve got the best prices.”

Oikawa held his hands out as if expecting praise. “You’re welcome.”

Kuroo shook his head in disbelief but said, “Thank you for the wine. Really. It’s great.”

“This wine or all of it?”

Kuroo pointed at him. “Don’t push your luck.” He grinned, though, and went to put his bottle safely in his office as Iwaizumi and Oikawa took the box out into the dining room.

Tsukishima shook his head, smiling at the antics. “How _do_ you put up with them?” he asked Bokuto, then made a face when he saw that Bokuto had his mouth stuffed with food. “God, never mind. Are you coming back out to the party?” he asked Akaashi instead.

Akaashi laughed. “Yes, as soon as he stops being so weird.”

Kuroo was walking past, taking Tsukishima’s hand as he moved towards the door. “So, never?”

Bokuto rolled his eyes at them as they left. “No class.” And when Akaashi squinted disbelieving at him he said, “Okay so do you wanna know about the desserts?” He launched into a mini monologue, explaining the various sweets on the plate: sticky toffee pudding, chocolate eclairs and sweet cream puffs, a thick chocolate pot de crème with honeyed whipped cream, and mini cheese cakes with wine gelées. “That’s basically jello, I guess,” he said, pointing to the dark red tops of the cheesecakes.

“Ohhh,” Akaashi hummed, impressed. “Your bakers are very good.” He dipped a spoon into the chocolate and took a bite, smiling at how light and fluffy it was. “Oh, _very good_.”

Bokuto grinned, cutting one of the cheesecakes in half and taking a bite. “Yeah, they are. Even Russia’s pretty good. From what Kuroo says he’s working really hard, and has improved by leaps and bounds from when he was first hired. And he and Yaku are dating or living together or something. I’ve always wondered if they _practice_ at home, if you know what I mean.”

Akaashi said he didn’t, and Bokuto laughed so hard he choked and had to fall away from the counter and make a lap of the kitchen until he stopped laughing. When he came back around he hugged his arms around Akaashi. “I love you.”

Akaashi leaned against him, frowning up at him. “See, you say that, but you’re laughing at me.”

“Am not,” Bokuto said, grinning, and ducked his head to kiss him. “I can put away the desserts till later, if you want?” When Akaashi nodded Bokuto took the plates away (after Akaashi snuck another spoonful of the chocolate dessert) and skillfully wrapped the leftovers in plastic. Akaashi gathered the dirty dishes and followed him down the hallway. Bokuto put their plates in the corner shelf of the large walk-in cooler then showed him the dish room, which even when it wasn’t running smelled damp and chemically, and Akaashi didn’t want to stay in any longer than he had to.

So, to better please his sense of smell, Bokuto took his hand and pulled him through swinging double doors to another kitchen. It wasn't as large as the main kitchen, but still impressive. Mixers lined one wall, with tall glass ovens along the other, a small but sizable brick oven, and rolling racks filled with more breads and pastries in the corner. Two long island counters ran the length of the middle of the room, gleaming reflective with how clean they were.

“This is lovely,” Akaashi said, looking around, and peering into the mixer that was so big around he knew he couldn’t wrap his arms around it, and certainly he couldn’t lift it. “What do they make in these?”

“Anything,” Bokuto said. “Cake batter, bread dough, uh, something else pastry.”

Akaashi laughed. “How knowledgeable you are.” He walked to look at the ovens, smiling at his reflection in the clean glass. “I love these.”

Bokuto was right behind him. “They’re self-cleaning, and able to steam, too.” He slipped his arms around Akaashi’s middle, leaning his head down to kiss Akaashi’s shoulder.

“What does that do?”

“Steam can make certain pastries rise better, or make the crusts of some breads extra crunchy when released at the right time in a bake. Let’s just say that when Suga first saw them I’ve been told he cried a little.”

Akaashi laughed, turning his head to look at him. “That good, huh?”

“Very good,”Bokuto said, pulling away to turn Akaashi in his arms so he could kiss him properly. Akaashi sighed against his mouth, which tasted of the caramel and toffee dessert he’d eaten just before putting away. Akaashi slid his hands up the soft, lumpy cardigan until he could cup Bokuto’s face in his hands.

“Oh,” Bokuto pulled away suddenly. “Come here.” He backed up, hands on Akaashi’s hips, and guided him to one of the islands. “Hop up.”

Akaashi glanced behind him, confused, but when Bokuto nodded and said it was okay, he hoisted himself up onto the counter. “Why—”

Bokuto slotted himself between his legs, pulling him close so he had to tilt his head upwards for them to kiss. “There, much better.” He slid his arms around Akaashi’s waist again, and when Akaashi arched into him and leaned to kiss him, he spread his fingers upwards.

They spent several minutes like that, Akaashi gradually moving closer to feel more of him, wrapping his legs around Bokuto’s middle to feel the strength of him hidden away under his clothes. He’d said he’d started working out again, and Akaashi could feel it in every touch, even down to the tips of his fingers, which slid up under the hem of his shirt, making Akaashi sigh and gasp into his mouth. “Kou…” he muttered, hot all over, chasing Bokuto’s mouth when he pulled away, and settling for burying his face in his shoulder, breathing hard.

Bokuto’s hands stilled and Akaashi squirmed to get him to move again. “Want me to stop?”

“No,” Akaashi whispered, honestly surprised for a moment at himself. So he said again, “No. Please don’t.”

Bokuto looked up at him, one hand spreading up his spine, and his hands were strong and soothing, comforting because Akaashi knew he was _safe._ Akaashi stared down at him, his heart making loud, anxious rhythms in his chest.

“I love you,” he whispered, then gasped when Bokuto’s other hand pressed flat on his hip and pulled him against him.

Unpleasant memories flickered across his mind at the sensation, making him shiver, so he clung to Bokuto tighter, letting his warmth chase them away as best he could. He dug his hands into the back of Bokuto’s hair, holding on while Bokuto kissed him, deep and slow.

The door swung open and Akaashi ripped himself away, eyes wide with fear, his heart loud and making him a little dizzy with a rush of adrenaline. Suga walked in, paused when he saw them tangled around each other, then walked casually to one of the tall racks and pulled a sheet tray covered with extra eclairs off of it. “Don’t mind me,” he said.

Bokuto was following his advice, nuzzling his nose against Akaashi’s neck. He squawked when Akaashi shoved his face away. “He said don’t mind him!”

But Akaashi thought he could bake his own breads with how hot his face was and covered it with his hands. “Oh my _god,_ I’m so embarrassed I could _die_ ,” he muttered, mostly to himself, but he heard Bokuto and Suga laugh.

“Just be glad it wasn’t Yaku,” Suga said, moving back across the kitchen towards the door. “He’d be pissed you were even _in_ his pastry shop. He’s already telling Kuroo he’s going to put up big _No Bo_ signs all over the place.”

Bokuto stroked Akaashi’s thigh with soothing fingers. “Tell Yaku he can suck my dick.”

Akaashi peered through his fingers to see Suga at the door, the sheet tray balanced on his fingertips, giving Bokuto a frustrated look.

“You two really should try to get along better. He’s not as bad as you seem to think he is. Really, he’s quite fun once you get to know him.”

Bokuto huffed. “We get along fine. He’s just got a _short_ temper.”

Suga made a disapproving scoff and shook his head, backing out with his tray. “Please sanitize everything when you’re done.” And he was gone.

“Oh my god, _oh_ my god, _oh my god_ ,” Akaashi whispered, absolutely mortified.

“It’s fine,” Bokuto said, grinning. “He’s seen worse. He said he saw Kuroo and Tsu—”

“ _Don’t_ tell me!” Akaashi flapped his hands around, then pushed against Bokuto’s chest until he moved away so Akaashi could hop down off the counter. “I don’t want to know.”

Bokuto was pouting. “Oh, come on… I’ve always wanted to show you the kitchens…”

“Yeah, you gave me a tour,” Akaashi said, straightening his shirt and sweater. “We should go back out, though. They’ll wonder where we are. And if we go now Suga won’t think we did dirty things in here.”

“But I want him to think that—ouch!” He rubbed his arm, looking genuinely pained where Akaashi had slapped him.

Akaashi squinted at him. “What’s wrong with your arm?”

“Nothing,” Bokuto said, then when Akaashi kept waiting, “I just hit it on something a few weeks back—bad bruise.” He spoke too fast, and Akaashi could tell he was hiding something, but he turned Akaashi by the shoulders and guided him out. “Fine, fine. Let’s go back to the party.”

Akaashi turned his head as they walked. “What happened? What were you doing? Were you doing something stupid when you hurt it?”

Bokuto flushed a bright pink, and wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Yes.”

Akaashi shook his head. “I can’t believe you.”

“I’m sorry,” Bokuto said, kissing his cheek. When they were in the main kitchen he grabbed his bottle of wine from Oikawa and stowed it safely in a hollow space near the grill. “My station,” he explained, proudly.

Back in the dining room, Akaashi tried to pretend that he’d been there the whole time, even though Suga winked at him. Bokuto perched him on one of the bar stools and leaned beside him, telling Taketora how good the meatballs he’d made had been. Akaashi listened as the group of chefs chatted about what they’d made, sounding like they’d been talking about the dishes for days and never tiring of the conversation. It was what you did when your life was all about food, Akaashi supposed.

Then there was a muted _pop_ sound that made several people paused and look to see that Fukunaga had opened his wine, and was about to pour out a glass for the hostess (Akaashi didn’t need Bokuto whispering in his ear to know that the fish cook was hopelessly in love with the pretty woman) because apparently the expensive wine was only for the back of house.

Oikawa shrieked, “Wait!” and snatched the glass and bottle from them. “You can’t drink it straight away!”

Fukunaga squinted at him. “You gave it to me to do with what I want.”

Oikawa made an aggravated huffing sound, taking it behind the bar and searching under some cabinets while Kenma frowned at him before he pulled out a large glass decanter. “It’s an absolute _crime_ to drink this before you let it breathe properly.” He pointed an accusatory finger at the other chefs. “That goes for _all of you_.” When everyone simply stared at him he said, “Iwa—tell them!”

Iwaizumi, with a cup of punch in his hand, sipped it then said, “He’s right.”

Even Kuroo nodded his agreement so Fukunaga said, “Well, how long does it take?”

Oikawa looked a bit put out at the question, as if a seasoned chef should know. “At _least_ half an hour.”

Lyanna giggled, pushing herself up to perch on the bar. She’d taken off her tall stiletto heels and her stockings, white and silver striped, glittered in the lights. “We can entertain ourselves until then. Oikawa, sing with me.” Several people made curious noises and she nodded around at them all. “You didn’t know he was a singer? He’s really good.” She winked at him while he blushed. “We went to high school together—we were in an a cappella group together.”

“No!” Taketora laughed loudly, leaning over the bar. “Do it, do it, do it!”

Oikawa was carefully pouring the bottle into the decanter, his face just as red as the deep dark wine. “No,” he said firmly. “Those days are long behind me.”

“Oh _please_!” Lyanna leaned back, until the men around her all flinched nervously, Fukunaga and Taketora reaching out a hand to grab her if she began to fall behind the bar. Akaashi thought that Oikawa must have a _good view_ of how low her dress went. “I can do the high notes, and you the low. You were never a good bass but you’ve got a lovely voice. Hajime, you do it too!”

Iwaizumi shook his head. “I can’t sing.”

“Oh that’s right. You were in band, banging that big drum all the time.” She whipped her head around to stare at Oikawa.

Oikawa wouldn’t look at her, and tried to run away by slipping around the other side of the bar. “No, I’d really—”

But Bokuto was on that side of the bar, and he leaned over, catching Oikawa in a hug and pulling him close. “Oh, come on, you don’t want to upset the lady, do you?” he asked, voice low and simpering.

Oikawa glared at him, but Bokuto only flashed his giga-watt smile. He glanced at Lyanna, who was sitting up now and kicking her heels in a gentle beat against the bar and batting her eyelashes at him. Several people said, “Come on! It’ll be fun—do it—” and chanted his name until Oikawa set the decanter down and shook Bokuto’s arm off him.

“One song,” he told her as he came to stand in front of her.

She beamed, wiggling forward so she was perched on the edge and held her hands out. “The clappy one, from senior year.”

He made a face. “Really?”

“I _love_ that one.” She held her hands up expectantly.

Oikawa stared at her, rubbed his face for a moment in frustration, then pressed his palms to hers. “None of the swishy stuff, just the beat. We can’t do any more than that.”

“Done!”

He sighed, but nodded, and they took a moment to set a little beat, then the began a weird clapping rhythm, clearly rehearsed and committed to memory _years ago_ , that was fast and bouncy, and had several people gasping and giggling with how serious Oikawa suddenly looked. Lyanna began to hum for a few beats, then she started to sing, and her voice was high and sweet. Akaashi was immediately impressed, and wondered why she was a hostess instead of a lounge singer or something. Or a broadway star. Something that would show off this lovely talent.

Then Oikawa began to sing with her, and his voice was rich and warm and Akaashi actually heard a few people whisper, impressed. They watched each other as they sang, making sure they stayed on beat, and their voices filled the room, sounding like more than just two people. It was a very short song, but strikingly wonderful, and when it faded everyone cheered, applauding loudly.

Lyanna giggled, throwing her arms around Oikawa’s neck and hugging him. “Ohhhh, thank you! That was so fun! Let’s get the gang back together!”

Oikawa patted her shoulder, pulling away when she finally released him. “I’m _much_ too busy.”

She pointed at him. “That wasn’t a no.”

“That was a no.”

He went to Iwaizumi, red faced, but clearly pleased with himself. Fukunaga, sitting at the stool immediately beside Lyanna said to her, “You’ve got a lovely voice.”

She smiled down at him, reaching over and touching his hand. “Why, thank you.”

“Will you sing another?”

She sat up a bit straighter, not embarrassed at all, but glancing around at all the people. Kuroo said, “Anything you want.” And a few others whistled or clapped to encourage her. Not that she needed it. Akaashi could see how much all the attention pleased her, and he wondered if she’d been drinking or if she was always as chipper. She did sing another song, one that several people knew and sang along with her after she encouraged them. Fukunaga’s eyes kept flitting to her thigh where a long pale swath of skin was exposed as her dress rode up. The stockings didn’t go quite high enough, and he looked _highly_ appreciative. And once she leaned down and ran her fingers over Fukunaga’s cheek, singing to him specifically when the song mentioned a _special sleigh ride for two_.

Bokuto reached over and slapped Kuroo’s chest triumphantly, excited, and pointed at them until Kuroo grabbed his hand and pulled it down, hissing at him to behave himself. Bokuto didn’t stop grinning and put and arm around Akaashi’s shoulders, patting him to the rhythm of the song.

But suddenly there was a loud screeching from all around the room. One of the other waitresses let out a little scream of fright. Bokuto and Kuroo exchanged worried glances and both pulled out their phones, which were the things that were screaming. Everyone’s phone was. Akaashi leaned over to look at the screen and saw a notification: _State of Emergency Issued…_

“Oh no,” Akaashi gasped, looking wide eyed up at him.

Bokuto touched his shoulder with one hand. “Hang on, hang on, let me look.”

Between everyone’s cell phones and the small radio Kenma pulled from under the bar they found out that the mayor had declared the state of emergency after more than fifteen inches of snow had already been dumped on the city in the span of a few hours, and not looking like it was going to stop any time soon. Weather forecasts predicted twenty five or more inches total, even up to thirty by the morning. By all accounts it would be a historical record if that much snow fell in one day. All transportation was put on hold, no subway, no busses, no taxis. The Mayor was asking everyone to stay put and hunker down until it all blew over.

Suga was _distraught_. “No!” he shouted, grabbing Daichi’s sleeve. “We can’t stay!”

Daichi took hold of his hands, trying to calm him. “Did you hear—there’s no way back home.”

“We can walk!”

Daichi shook his head. “It’ll take like three hours in all this.”

Suga stared at him. “I don’t see a problem.”

Kuroo moved forward, touching his shoulder. “He’ll be fine for one night,” he said gently.

“Your stupid cats might!” Suga said, his voice high and upset. “Not Logan! He’s gotta use the bathroom and eat dinner and he doesn’t like storms and what if the power goes out—it’s gonna be so dark and he’ll be all alone. He’s a retired military dog and he gets so nervous. Daichi, we _can’t_ leave him alone for so long!”

Daichi was frowning at him, opening and closing his mouth, trying to argue each point Suga brought up, then groaning when Suga pouted at him. “I… Koushi, please, it’s so far. You don’t even have a proper coat.”

Suga turned to Kuroo. “Can I borrow yours? Don’t you have extras in your office?”

Akaashi suddenly realized that _he_ was stuck, too. He slid off his stool, worry churning in his belly. He wanted to throw up. He was suddenly scared. “Can I use your phone?”

Bokuto handed it to him. “You okay?”

“I’ve got to call the Center,” he said tersely, taking it and moving away towards the kitchen. He had to google the number, and when the phone was ringing, Kuroo, Suga, and Daichi came into the kitchen, arguing loudly, so he moved to the back door and nudged it open, meaning to stand just outside the door so he didn’t get too cold, but the door was too heavy and it closed behind him. So he stood against the brick wall, waiting for the phone to pick up. “Hello? Yeah, this is Keiji, is Willow there?”

The staff on the other end said, “No, she just left.” It was Conner, one of the staff he really liked.

“Well… have you heard about the…”

“The emergency stuff? Yeah. What are you going to do?”

Akaashi sighed, shivering against the cold brick. “Well, we’re still at the Christmas party… and it’s too far to walk.” At least in _this_ it was too far to walk.

“Are you safe?” Conner asked.

“Yes, of course.”

Conner sighed, and was quiet a moment. “I’ll tell Willow and the doc, and have them call you back? I really don’t know what to tell you.”

Akaashi turned around, picking at the brick with a fingernail. “Okay… just call this number. Do you have caller ID?”

“Yup. But… really, I wouldn’t worry too much. There’s not much we can do without endangering you trying to come back. Just stay safe.”

“I will,” Akaashi said, then hung up. He tugged on the door, stepping back in, shuddering with cold. Snowflakes dusted his shoulders, and he passed by Kuroo’s office on the way to the dining room. Bokuto saw him and smiled, brushing snow out of his hair and kissing him.

“You okay?”

“Yes,” Akaashi said, pressing his face to his chest and snuggling close to get warm. Bokuto rubbed his back soothingly. “If the Center calls it’ll be my therapist,” he whispered so only Bokuto could hear. “But I can’t get back, so we’re stuck together.”

Bokuto smiled down at him. “Oh, darn.”

Akaashi nodded, but he was still worried. While the idea of being with Bokuto for longer was appealing, being stuck in the restaurant wasn’t exactly how he hoped to spend their first night back together.

“Well,” Kuroo said, coming back towards them, “they’re gone.” He picked up his drink and took a big gulp, glancing out the windows. “Those morons. Suga’s gonna catch the flu. I’m going to be out of a baker.”

Bokuto, arms still wrapped around Akaashi and not feeling like he was going to let him go anytime soon, said, “And the rest of us?”

Kuroo sighed, leaning on the bar. “Guess we make camp.”

Tsukishima pulled a really nasty face and said, “Great. Exactly how I wanted to spend my Saturday evening.” Everyone looked at him and he scoffed. “You can't tell me you're happy to be here.”

Bokuto tightened his arms around Akaashi. “I am.”

Tsukishima rolled his eyes. “Gross— happiness.”

Even Akaashi laughed.

“Well,” Saru said, “at least we won't run out of food.”

“But you're not going to eat your way through my inventory.” Kuroo gave Bokuto a pointed look. “Keep then in line.”

“I'll try, dude. State of emergency, though.”

They were quiet then, everyone looking out the window. The street was deserted, the snow piling up against the windows. It was pretty, Akaashi thought again, even if it did cause so many problems.

Suddenly Taketora sidled up beside Bokuto, leaned an elbow on him and said conspiratorially, “Snowman contest?”

Bokuto said back in the same tone, “Winner doesn’t have to clean the grease trap?”

“For a _month._ ”

“Done!” They slapped hands in a high five and raced towards the coat room.

Kuroo looked bored. “They forgot I divvy up the cleaning tasks.”

Bokuto and Taketora came back wielding everyone’s coats, throwing them to their owners and demanding everyone follow them. When everyone was outside, Akaashi, Lyanna, and Tsukishima huddled under the awning and shivering, the entire staff of _je sais pas_ raced around the street in what had begun as a friendly snowman contest that had devolved into a vicious and intense snowball fight. Sides were chosen, then broken, then it was every man and woman for themselves.

Lyanna huddled in her thick coat, the hood up around her face. “I wish I could play.” She wiggled her heels. “Bad shoe choice.”

Akaashi said, “I know a few guys who can do backflips in taller heels.”

She gasped. “No shit?”

He nodded, about to tell her how he, Mattsun, Makki, and several other models had in a dance-off in their heels, when a snowball smashed into the window beside their head. All three of them ducked and Tsukishima shouted, “ _You monsters_!”

Tsukishima and Lyanna went inside to find warmth, but Akaashi huddled alone and watched the staff run around the street. It seemed that the bakers were on a hastily allied team with the front of house staff and the rest of the cooks were on the other team. Kuroo shouted commands like an army commander—and got a snowball in his face for the trouble.

Yaku shouted, “That’s for all the fucking _butter_!”

Kuroo, flustered, wiping snow off his face, screamed back, “ _It’s delicious fuck you_!” and chased him down the street before tackling him into a giant pile of snow.

Akaashi waited until Bokuto was barreling past him… and took the opportunity to throw a handful of snow in his face.

Bokuto shrieked and stopped dead to stare at him. “You traitor,” he whispered, wide eyed, snow dripping off his nose and clumped in his hair.

Akaashi giggled, pressing himself back against the wall. “I never picked sides.”

Bokuto took a step closer, smile spreading across his face. “Ohhhh, you’re going to get it,” he said, inching towards him.

Akaashi laughed again, nervously, pressing a hand over his mouth. “Please don’t,” he said, moving sideways.

Just as Bokuto surged forward to grab him Taketora leapt on his back and they both toppled to the ground, Bokuto shrieking with cold as Taketora shoved a huge handful of snow down his shirt.

“You mother fucker!” Bokuto yelled, rolling like he was on fire, the two of them wrestling in the snow until they were both breathless and screaming obscenities at each other. Akaashi took that moment to sneak away, slipping back into the restaurant for safety.


	36. noël

A few hours later after all the snow had been played in, chicken soup had been made on a whim, and all the food had been put away (Kuroo was insistent—“I don’t want ants.”), a lot of people were sitting around one of the big long tables by the window watching the snow continue to fall.

Lev finally asked what several people were thinking, “So, where are we going to sleep?”

No one answered for a long moment. Then Kuroo said, “Anywhere you can, I guess.”

“There’s a hotel across the street,” Yaku said.

Bokuto leaned down to better see the tall, fancy building through the window. “That place is _hella_ expensive.” He paused, then looked around the restaurant, eyes wide with some sort of idea.

Kuroo saw it, and frowned worriedly. “What’s that look for? That’s your dumb idea look.”

Bokuto rolled his eyes. “Just for that you can’t come.” He looked around, considering, and finally grabbed Saru’s sleeve. “Come with me.”

Saru pulled his arm away. “What? Why me?”

“Cause you know how to talk to them.”

He stared at Bokuto. “Who?”

“The hotel people!”

Saru shook his head. “What the hell are you—”

“Just come on,” Bokuto said, gripping his sleeve and taking him out the door and across the street.

Akaashi watched him go, feeling nervous to be left alone here. Also, the Center never called him back—and actually he’d really liked to have been able to talk to Willow or the after hours therapist right now. He needed to tell someone about the party, and the people, and the food, and find out if he'd done anything wrong or if he'd done too much or…

He sighed, wrapping his fingers around he mug of strong green tea that Hinata had made for him. It wasn't that he wasn't having a good time—he was, really—but he'd not been around so many new people since his last modeling job, and not this much food in years, and his routine, which had been scheduled nearly to the minute for over three months now, had been _considerably_ thrown off. In every sense of the word. Everything in him was tight and tingling, from the minute shivering of his chest to the numbness in his fingers. Why had Bokuto left? He'd said he'd stay right with him. Now he was alone with strangers that—

“Are you ok?”

Akaashi looked up, tensing so hard the still hot tea in his cup spilled a little. He hissed in pain and Hinata, who had spoken, passed him a green paper napkin to wipe it off. “Yes,” he said, all together unsure if that were true at the moment. “It's just… strange. Being here overnight.”

Hinata shrugged. “I think it's cool, it's like a stake out or something.”

Beside Akaashi, Taketora said, “No it's not. That's in a car.”

“Not always.”

“Well it's not a stake out,” Taketora said. “It's more like a camp out or lock in.”

Kuroo took a sip of whatever he was drinking, Akaashi knew it was some sort of alcohol, but not what. After the staff figured out that Kenma didn’t care at all and Kuroo was being lenient with the bar many of them were well on their way to being drunk. Kuroo especially, who had been self medicating with strong liquor in order to avoid a cold. “So many ins and outs.”

Akaashi glanced at him, hugging his hand around the mug. “Have you heard from your baker?”

Kuroo pulled his phone from his pocket and tapped it, sighing. “No… but hopefully soon. I swear to God if he dies and I have to hire some weirdo I’ll be pissed.”

Yaku squinted at him. “Says you like Suga is _not_ a weirdo.”

Akaashi said, “You’re all weirdos.” Then he gasped when he realized he said it aloud and everyone was staring at him. He dropped his head to the table and said, “Oh no, I didn’t mean—”

But the table exploded in laughter, and when Akaashi looked up Kuroo reached over and slapped a hand on his back.

“You know,” he said, “maybe you’d do well here after all.”

“Kuroo!” Bokuto shouted, bursting in through the door, flakes of snow chasing him and melting into the hardwood immediately. “We need you!” He rushed over and draped himself over Kuroo’s shoulders. “ _Oh_ , you’re warm. Hey, we need you to approve a bunch of food.”

Kuroo hunched a little when Bokuto put his chin on his head, looking up at him. “You’re heavy. What do you want? Where’s Saru?”

“He’s being held hostage by the enemy,” Bokuto whispered.

“The fuck are you talking about?”

Bokuto pulled away, moving to drape himself on the table beside him. Akaashi leaned away from him and Bokuto turned to him, as if remembering he was there. He grinned and put an arm around him. “You want to go save Saru with me?”

Akaashi shifted uncomfortably. Bokuto was acting so strange and half the staff was watching them. “No,” he said.

Bokuto hugged him tight, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Don't worry, I'll make sure you're comfortable. It'll be just like a real bed.” He turned back to Kuroo to explain, “Saru is negotiating at the hotel.”

Kuroo shook his head in confusion. “Negotiating _what_?”

“Blankets and pillows! I figured they’d have tons extra so I tried to buy some.” He made a face, scoffing. “But they won’t sell. It’s improper or illegal or unsanitary or _something_. I don’t know. So we offered a trade. Food for pillows. We’ll take ‘em back in the morning.”

Kuroo was wobbling side to side, and he pointed at Bokuto. “Whose food did you offer?”

Bokuto’s smile spread on his face as he gazed at his boss. “You drunk, bro?”

“Nah, bro.” Kuroo flapped a hand. But he sounded drunk.

Bokuto leaned his head on Akaashi’s, snuggling into his hair with his cheek. “You don't want to leave your friends without pillows and blankets in this cold, cold time of need do you, Kuroo? What a cruel thing that would be.”

“What exactly did you promise them?”

“Just some food. Their cooks bailed on them. Nothing expensive or fancy, either. Just—y’know, easy shit, or like catering food.”

Kuroo sighed, drumming his fingers on the table. “As long as it's not too much, I guess—”

“Great!”

“And you better keep track of everything you use!”

“Sure, sure,” Bokuto said, excited. He kissed Akaashi’s head and pulled away, digging out his phone and pressing it to his ear. “Yo, you tell them what we could make? Yup,” he went to the bar, pulling a long strip of receipt paper from the register and beginning to scribble a list, “got it. We’ll have it over there in like twenty minutes.” He hung up, looking over the table. “Anyone wanna help?”

Kuroo laid his head on the table to avoid looking at him. A few people laughed and then Taketora stood. “I'll help.”

Bokuto came back to curl his fingers around Akaashi’s chin and tilt his face up to kiss him. “Just a little bit longer.”

“Can I…” he was embarrassed, not liking the way all of Bokuto’s friends watched them. “Can I come?” Bokuto looked at him quizzically, so he corrected himself, “Just to watch.”

“Oh, sure.” He laughed, but stepped back when Akaashi stood to follow him. The three of them made their way into the kitchen and Bokuto had him sit on the stool from earlier while he and Taketora walked back and forth between the kitchen and the back, gathering supplies. Bokuto changed out of his warm party clothes and into a long sleeved, tight black shirt that looked like something he’d wear at the gym. “Hey, Tora, don’t dirty up the whole flattop, we only need like half of it. Same with the range.”

Taketora, who was leaning over the stove, turning on the flames, making one jump from one eye to the next with a large flat pan said back, “I’m not stupid. We’ve already cleaned this place once, I don’t wanna do it again.”

“We’ll have to at least wipe down every—”

“I know,” Taketora snapped. “Jeez, you actin’ all responsible and shit.”

Bokuto winked at Akaashi, tugging his sleeves up a little. “Crazy, right? So, I’m thinking two proteins, something green, and something starchy. Good enough, yeah? Hôtel pan of each?”

Taketora nodded. “Can do.”

Akaashi sat on his stool, sipping his tea and watching the two of them work. It was fascinating and calming to see how effortlessly they moved together. It was obvious that they were used to working in sync, and even as the kitchen warmed with the fire and they snapped crude and dirty jokes to one another, they were professionals, working their craft to perfection. It didn’t matter that they weren’t being paid, but this was a reflection of their place of work—their home away from home—and they were going to live up to their flawless reputation.

He’d seen Bokuto cook at home, but this was a whole different creature. At home he was playful and bantering, explaining what he was doing or taking half the time to goof off with Makki. But this Bokuto, the professional, was quiet and swift, working with deft efficiency, no wasted movements, and absolutely sure of himself. It was a magical transformation, and Akaashi enjoyed watching him more than he thought he would. It was like a secret part of himself that he’d never shown Akaashi and was now opening up to him. And as they were finishing, Taketora wiping down the still steaming flattop and heat shimmering on the air, Bokuto wrapping the shining silver pans in saran wrap and aluminum foil he plucked one of the slender green beans out and took a bite, then held it out to Akaashi. “Taste test?”

Akaashi frowned at the vegetable, but did reach out and take it, eating it in one quick bite before he could think about the butter on his fingers. “It’s good,” he said.

Bokuto smiled at him, pleased. “I make damn good beans.”

“You do,” Akaashi said. And they were good, he’d sautéed them in butter and garlic with a generous sprinkle of salt and pepper and they had just the right amount of crunch for texture.

“Okay,” Bokuto patted the pans when he was done wrapping them, “we’ll be back in a bit with all the comforts of home. Tora, help me carry them over.”

 

* * *

 

They returned with huge armfuls of bundled up blankets, then had to make several trips back and forth across the street, making a trench through the snow with their footsteps, and eventually they’d amassed a rather large collection of crisp white linens. Everyone took a pair and settled in little cozy nests around the restaurant, in booths, in the corners, spread out in piles of the blankets that Bokuto had so cleverly procured.

Akaashi was laying on one of the booths, curled up in both Bokuto’s cardigan and one of the blankets, one hand dangling over the edge resting on Bokuto’s chest. He was in the space where the table had been before he’d moved it to the edge of the room to make a place for himself, and his eyes shone in the semi-darkness of the lights that came through the windows and from the low lighting of the bar. “Did you have fun?” Bokuto whispered into the darkness, playing with Akaashi’s fingers. He was still in the soft black shirt, and Akaashi kept tracing his hand over the strong planes of his chest.

“Yes,” Akaashi whispered back, leaning almost off the booth seat to be closer to him. The Center had never called them back and Akaashi hoped it was because the therapists thought he was doing just fine on his own. He felt better overall, the tight tingling in his chest having dissipated the longer he laid feeling the steady warmth of Bokuto under his fingers. “I like your friends.”

Bokuto grinned up at him. “Really? I think they like you too. Kuroo does, I can tell.”

“Can you?”

“Yeah, of course. He said so.”

Akaashi pressed his cheek to his pillow, looking over the edge of the seat. “No he didn’t.”

“Sure he did. He said ‘ _I’m so glad you brought the most beautiful person in the world. He’s smart, and funny, and clever. I’m totally gonna give him a job whenever he asks for it._ ’”

Akaashi giggled, giving his chest a little smack. “No he didn’t.”

Bokuto sat up, his blankets pooling around his hips, raising one hand to stroke it through Akaashi’s hair. “No, but he does like you. Everyone does. Even Yaku does. He gave you an extra éclair, didn’t he?”

“Yes…”

He stroked his thumb over Akaashi’s ear, smiling. “I promise, you did fine. They like you, you like them, it’s a perfect marriage.” He leaned down, and Akaashi turned his face up so they could share a sweet, gentle kiss. “You’ve had a very long day…”

Akaashi laid his head back on his pillow, nestling his head into Bokuto’s hand. “It’s certainly been a day.”

“You’ve accomplished a lot, don’t you think?”

“…More than I thought I would, certainly.”

Bokuto touched their cheeks together, traced his nose across Akaashi’s cheek, and kissed him again. “Sleep now, my little bird.”

“Will you be okay on the floor?”

“Knowing you’re _practically_ on top of me? I’ll dream happy dreams.”

Akaashi laughed softly and let Bokuto kiss him again. “Thank you for doing all of this. Everyone is comfortable and warm because of you.”

“I think they’re warm because of the alcohol,” Bokuto said, laughing. He lay back down, keeping Akaashi’s hand against his heart.

Akaashi grinned, leaning over so he was on his belly, closer to him. He closed his eyes, tugging up Bokuto’s cardigan around his face so he was surrounded by his scent and slipped into sleep, dreaming of éclairs dusted with snow, lobster bisque bubbling on the stove, and Bokuto’s arms around him, keeping him warm.

 

* * *

 

Kuroo was still awake, listening to his employees—his family, really— sleep around him. Bokuto had done wonders with the hotel, and it had made everyone comfortable. Even Tsukishima, who was picky and needy, had folded up a comforter to lay on and curled up in the corner, snoozing soundly. He sat at the bar with Kenma, sharing one of the bottles of wine that Oikawa and his husband had brought. It was good wine, rich and full, even though Kuroo had had his fair share of scotch earlier.

“This turned out rather well,” Kenma said softly, whispering so they didn’t disturb the others.

“What? The party, or the impromptu sleepover?”

Kenma shrugged, sipping his wine. “Both.”

“All things considered, yeah, guess it did.”

“Did you ever hear from Suga?”

“Oh,” Kuroo nodded, tapping his phone to show Kenma the picture of the dog in the snow, wrapped in his very own red Christmas sweater and booties. “They made it home.”

Kenma chuckled at the picture. “I used to be mad that I wasn’t a part of the _text chain_ but I’m glad I’m not now. You two assaulting the others with pictures of your pets would be very annoying.”

“Did I show you Monsieur?” Kuroo asked, flipping to his camera roll and showing Kenma the little black kitten that had grown to a little fluffy ball of spitfire, running off with their socks and knocking everything he could reach off the counters, with Madame included, resulting in more than a few scuffles.

“You've always had a way with cats,” Kenma said, obediently looking at the pictures. “Even when we were kids.”

“They're not hard to win over, just feed them and pretend to be their slave.”

Kenma chuckled, shaking his head. “You remember that cat you would feed every morning on our way to school senior year?” When Kuroo’s puzzled face said he didn't he said, “Fat tabby cat. I told you it probably belonged to someone in the area but you still insisted on bringing it chicken and rice and fish every morning?”

Kuroo did remember now, and he smiled at the memory of crouching in the alley with Kenma playing his handheld behind him, trying to convince him to put it down to pet the cat that he'd worked so hard to win over. “Oh yeah, I called him Thomas. Even then I didn't like the look of cat food.”

“Yeah, well, that cat _attacked me_ when you left and I stopped feeding him.”

Kuroo gasped. “You stopped feeding him?” And when Kenma glowered at him he stammered, “I… I mean, oh no are you ok?”

“That was ten years ago and I've still got a scar on my ankle.”

“Oh shit.”

“Yeah.” He looked away, scratching a nail across the stain of the bar. “Yet another thing I'm still mad about.”

Kuroo rolled his eyes, scoffing. “Oh come _on_. You can't still be mad. I apologized like a dozen times. Seriously, it all worked out well—I came back, we’re working together, we’ve got a good thing going!”

Kenma was quiet for a long moment, his face slowly becoming more and more upset. “But you didn’t.”

Kuroo blinked at him, going a little cold in the chest at his words. “What?”

“You never _actually_ apologized for leaving me all alone. You left two weeks before graduation, I barely got a phone call. You didn’t even _come over to say good-bye._ You were too busy _packing_. And—and you still don’t seem to realize how much that hurt me.” His face was flushed, and his voice shook just a bit, not bothering to hide how much he was _still_ hurting.

“…No,” Kuroo whispered. “No, I—I apologized. I called you the moment I landed.”

Kenma snapped, “You left a _voicemail._ ”

Kuroo blinked at him. “I…” But he didn’t have any words. He could have sworn he’d talked to Kenma several times about Paris. But, as they’d known all their lives, Kenma’s memory was sharp as a razor and he would remember better. He also wasn’t one to hold a grudge, so the fact that after ten years he _still_ became upset at the mention of Paris… proved to Kuroo that maybe _he had been in the wrong_. “Koz, I…” but he stopped himself again, at a loss.

Kenma snorted, taking a big drink of his wine. “Yeah. Figured it out finally, hm? I’m not crazy, you’re just a jerk.”

Kuroo stared at him, his brain replaying nearly every conversation they’d had over the last ten years, and any time Kenma had been upset, and all the times Kuroo had dismissed him, thinking he was just holding a child-like grudge. But, no, he’d been the one that had been acting like a child. All these years, and he was finally seeing the truth. How badly he’d fucked up. And how, even though he’d been such a jerk, how Kenma had stayed with him, stayed his friend. He stood, coming around the bar, and even though Kenma made a noise of protest, he allowed Kuroo to wrap him in his arms. He tucked Kenma against his chest, and it was a testament to their friendship that Kenma didn’t pull away. Kuroo pressed his cheek to Kenma’s head. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry that I didn’t treat you like I should have.”

Kenma was quiet for a long time, leaning into his chest. And finally, just before Kuroo was about to speak, he said, “Thank you. That’s all I’ve wanted.”

“You should have said something earlier…”

“I wanted you to _realize_ …”

“You know how dumb I am.”

Kenma scoffed, pulling away and pressing a hand to his eyes for a moment—Kuroo was worried, was he crying? No. Well, maybe. But he was pulling himself together. “You’re not dumb, you’re just… wrapped up in your own head. All the time. And, for the record,” he looked up at Kuroo, a small smile on his face, “I’m happy you got to go. You took advantage of the chance of a lifetime, and you came out the other side much better for it.”

Kuroo smiled, and took his face to hold him while he leaned down and gave him a chaste little kiss. “You’re the best. And I know you’re wanting to leave the restaurant soon… and you don’t have to worry about me. I’ll be okay. You’ve helped me realize my dream, so you go follow yours.”

“Thank you…” Kenma smiled, blushing a little. “I’ll hold you to that, when I’m ready. Now, careful, you’ll step on Shouyou.” Hinata was curled up behind the bar, snoring gently.

Kuroo laughed, gingerly stepping back. “No matter where I step I’m almost stepping on someone tonight.”

“As long as it doesn’t wake me up, I don’t care who you step on.” He finished his wine then sat carefully beside Hinata, getting ready to sleep, too. “It’s not quite like the sleepovers when we were kids, huh?”

Kuroo smiled at him, liking the way that Hinata reached out in his sleep to lay an arm over Kenma, and the way Kenma looked at him, so obviously in love. “No, it’s not. But it’s still nice.”

“Very.”

 

* * *

 

“Oh my god what are you wearing?” Akaashi asked as Bokuto came into the big lounge room at the Center. It was a few days after the snowstorm, the city having quickly recovered and life having gone back to normal.

Bokuto held his arms up as if in victory. “Merry Christmas!” He came over and hugged Akaashi, rubbing his face—which had a big, goofy looking, fake white beard hanging from his ears—all over Akaashi’s cheek.

“Ew, gross, stop!” Akaashi giggled, pushing away from him and rubbing his face on his shirt. “That thing’s so scratchy.”

Bokuto laughed and tugged the fake beard off, stuffing it into his pocket. “Yeah, but it was funny. But really,” he held his arms out again, “Merry Christmas.”

Akaashi stepped into his arms, snuggling into the warm smelling hoodie he wore. “Merry Christmas. I’m glad you’re here.” The Center didn’t allow clients to leave on holidays because everything was too hectic, temptations too strong, and family holidays were a major point of stress for many of them, so they took the stress away by scheduling family visiting hours where, if a client was getting too upset, the staff could politely ask the family to leave. He pulled Bokuto to one of the love seats and sat close to him. “What are you doing today? Other than this.”

“I was going to make dinner for Mattsun and Makki but they went to Jersey…”

Akaashi chuckled. “To see Makki’s crazy family? Yeah, makes sense.”

“I’m surprised—they just got back from Thanksgiving with Mattsun’s family, and that was all the way in South Carolina. They really travel a lot this time of year. The house has been quiet when they’re gone.”

“I’m sorry,” Akaashi told him, laying his cheek on his shoulder. “Next year we’ll spend every holiday together.”

“Pft,” Bokuto laughed. “Every holiday I’m not working, you mean.”

“You don’t work Christmas or Thanksgiving, that’s something.”

“Very true.” He was quiet a moment, then said, “Next year we could even go somewhere, if you want.”

“My mom would like it if we came down for Christmas,” Bokuto said thoughtfully.

Akaashi laughed. “I meant like Disneyland or something.”

“Oh, shit,” Bokuto said happily. “I love that idea.”

“Me too.” Akaashi turned to press a kiss to his shoulder. “And I know we promised not to do gifts—”

“No!” Bokuto said, pulling away, putting his hands on Akaashi’s cheeks. “Me first!”

Akaashi only blinked at him, then chuckled and touched his hands. “Alright, fine. You first.”

Bokuto beamed, kissing him before he sat back and reached into his pocket to pull out a small box. Akaashi’s eyes widened, nervous fear and excitement clear on his face and Bokuto said quickly, “Just open it.” He pressed the tiny box into Akaashi’s fingers, excited and nervous to see him open it. He’d spent several hours picking them out, and hoped they looked good and matched.

Akaashi slipped the little bow off the box, raising one eyebrow curiously. He pulled the top off and dropped the even smaller box into his hand. “You know what this looks like?”

“It’s… it’s not. But someday, I hope. If you want to.”

He smiled at Bokuto. “I’d love that.” He pushed the lid up, and gasped at the two tiny pieces of jewelry nestled in the box. Two brilliantly cut sapphires with silver holdings, and depending on how the light hit them they were either as dark as the deepest parts of the ocean or as bright and lovely as the summer sky. “Oh my god,” he whispered. “They’re lovely.”

“I spent so long trying to match them,” he took one from the box, and held it up to Akaashi’s cheek, smiling, “to your eyes.”

“You’re such a sap,” Akaashi said, laughing, but flushing pink and pleased.

“They’re real, too.”

Akaashi squinted at him, shaking his head. “How can you afford that? Koutarou, I told you not to spend—”

“It’s fine, it’s fine. They aren’t _big_ sapphires. Not that expensive.” He held it out, and Akaashi took it carefully and turned his head, pushing the little earring into the hole in his ear, then the other one.

“Do they look good?”

Bokuto felt warm and fuzzy all over, seeing just how lovely they were, how lovely Akaashi was, and how perfectly they matched. The earrings were one of the first things he noticed about Akaashi when they first met at the bar, and he thought that this would help remind him of how far they’d come in their relationship. He leaned close and cupped his face, kissing him. “You’re perfect.”

Akaashi smiled against his lips, reaching up to slide his fingers across Bokuto’s chest. “Do you want yours now?”

“Just stay right here and let me kiss you, that’s good enough for me.”

Akaashi giggled, patting his chest to make him let go, even though Bokuto kissed him once before he did. “Okay, so, I had to think a long time about what to get you. I wanted to get you a new knife but I didn’t know what kind you liked—”

“Knives are pretty expensive, I wouldn’t want you—”

“Oh hush, Bo!” Akaashi laughed, “I’m allowed to buy you things too. But I didn’t buy you a knife.” He pulled out a rectangular package wrapped in something soft with little cartoon owls all over it. “The wrapping’s a big bandana, too. It reminded me of you and your hair. You can use it at work, I thought…”

Bokuto smiled down at the little cloth and the dancing owls all over it. “I’ll wear it every day.” He flipped it over and untied the knot at the back, sliding the cloth off to reveal a slick black book. He glanced at Akaashi curiously, then opened the cover and found himself stunned to silence.

It was a photo album. The first page had been filled with four photographs, all of them making Bokuto realize just how close he’d become to each of the models. The first one was all four of them, trying to take a nice photo in the reading room bay window. Akaashi had set up his camera—it was on the rapid-fire shutter setting, just to make sure they got a good picture. But as they were sitting there Bokuto realized that, among the four of them, he was _once again_ a caveman among beauties, so at the last second he picked Akaashi up and pulled him into his lap with one arm while simultaneously reaching around Mattsun to jab Makki in the ribs where he knew he was ticklish.

The resulting picture was pure chaos: Makki shrieking and slapping at Bokuto, missing, and hitting Mattsun instead. Akaashi looking wild eyed at the sudden change of angle, and Bokuto looking pleased as punch at having pulled off his desired picture.

There were two pictures he didn’t know had ever been taken. One was of one night where he and Akaashi had fallen asleep on the couch. Akaashi was laying on top of him and Bokuto had pulled up the blankets around him so all you could see was the top of his head nestled under Bokuto’s chin.

And the other was a picture of himself and Mattsun sitting quietly at the breakfast nook, talking. It was artfully done in black and white, the morning light streaming in through the large window so they were back lit like silhouettes. Mattsun and Bokuto spent a lot of time together, and Bokuto really liked the quiet moments they shared.

The last one was him and Makki; he was on Bokuto’s shoulders, reaching up to clean the chandelier in the living room that hadn’t been cleaned since the models had moved in because none of them were tall enough. In the background Akaashi curled up on one of the armchairs, staring wide-eyed through his fingers. Bokuto remembered him muttering, “Please don’t fall, please don’t fall, please don’t fall,” over and over again.

He flipped the page, but the rest were blank. Akaashi leaned close, laying his head on Bokuto’s shoulder, touching the pages. “I thought we could fill it up together.”

Bokuto didn’t know what to say. He’d never had a full photo album before, other than the ones his mom had made when he was a kid; he’d never been in a place long enough to be close enough with anyone to warrant pictures, or printing out pictures, or putting them in a book together. He opened his mouth to say thank you, not just for the pictures, but for everything, for the home and the love he’d given Bokuto.

Akaashi looked up at him, touching his cheek. “Kou? Are you okay? Do you not like it?”

Bokuto tried to speak, and instead found himself drawing in a a sharp breath, soothing the heat at the back of his throat. He thought he was going to cry. Akaashi moved closer, and kissed his cheek, brushing his lips up to his forehead, and Bokuto realized he _was_ crying. Just a little.

“I’m sorry…” Akaashi said, touching their foreheads together. “I thought—”

“It’s amazing,” he finally managed, even though his tongue felt too heavy and his voice too thick. “This is better than amazing.”

Akaashi smiled, stroking his thumb over Bokuto’s cheek. “It’s not much… I wish it was more…”

Bokuto took his hand and pressed it to his mouth. “Keiji, this is everything. This is… it’s our future.”

“We’ll fill up all the pages.”

“You promise?” Bokuto asked, his voice breaking.

Akaashi leaned forward and kissed him, then smiled at him, staying close. “We’ll fill up every single page, and we’ll find more books, and we’ll fill them up, too.”

 

* * *

 

Kuroo lounged on his couch, two cats on his chest, happy as a bee in a flower patch. Or something like that—Monsieur had grown faster than he’d thought and was a long, lanky adolescent. The two cats were learning to get along, like yin and yang, black and white, blue eyes and golden. He loved them both, and they both demanded his love and attention equally. “Kei, what are you up to in my kitchen?”

Tsukishima called back, “Nothing difficult. Just hot chocolate.”

Kuroo hummed happily. “Don’t put nutmeg in it, I don’t like nutmeg.”

“I know.” He came over with two mugs, and saw Kuroo trapped down on the couch and scoffed. “Where am I supposed to sit, then?”

“The armchair?” Kuroo grinned up at him, one hand on each of the cats heads. Their purring vibrated his chest.

Tsukishima rolled his eyes and did sit on the armchair after setting down one of the mugs, crossing his long legs and shaking his head at the sight on the couch. “You kill me.”

“What?” Kuroo chuckled. “They love me, and I love them.”

“They love all the toys you bought them.”

“They needed Christmas presents just like you and me.” Kuroo had bought little stockings with paw prints and filled them with toys and treats he’d made. They’d loved the little tuna treats that Suga had made them, so he’d made more. The toys had been less liked by Madame, who turned her nose up at everything but food and cuddles now-a-days, but Monsieur had exhausted himself chasing feather toys and a little mechanized mouse Kuroo had bought that he could control with his phone.

“I would give you your gift from me, then, but you seem a bit busy.” He sipped his hot chocolate, raising his eyebrows. He’d been telling Kuroo for weeks how excited he was to give him his Christmas present.

Kuroo huffed, dislodging Madame so she narrowed her eyes at him. “You just want your gift.”

“You can’t even get up, you’re trapped. I can search the apartment and find it all on my own.”

“You’ll never find it.” Kuroo smirked at him.

Tsukishima took another thoughtful sip of his drink. “It’s behind all the extra stuff on the bottom of the pantry, isn’t it?”

Kuroo scowled at him for a long moment before he sat up, then yelped when Monsieur dug his claws into his chest. “Stop that! Get off me.” He dumped them both in the floor, then leaping over the couch when they _both_ attacked his feet. He did, in fact, go to the pantry and dig around on the lowest shelf in the furthest corner and pull out several carefully wrapped boxes. “You didn’t peek, did you?”

Tsukishima laughed. “Of course I didn’t. You’d already wrapped them.”

In truth, Kuroo had hidden his gifts in his office at work for the longest time, wrapping them there too, and only bringing them home the day before so he would have them for Christmas Day. He set them on the arm of Tsukishima’s chair, pleased. “I think you’ll appreciate them.”

Tsukishima smiled, setting his drink on the coffee table and nudging Monsieur away from it with his toe. “Yours are in the bedroom, in my sock drawer.”

Kuroo gasped, “You didn’t even hide them in your apartment?”

“Of course not. I’m never there. Just go get them.”

“Don’t open yours until I’m back,” Kuroo told him, vanishing down the hallway. He opened the drawer in the dresser where Tsukishima kept his socks and pushed them aside to see a long box nestled all along the bottom. It was heavier than it looked, and he took it back out to the living room. “You open yours first, I want to see. The big one first.” He sat on the chair beside him, holding his own gift in his lap, but he was much more excited to see if Tsukishima liked the things he got him.

After a moment where Tsukishima tried to argue, he finally relented and stuck a finger under the corner of the wrapping paper and pulled it off. Kuroo watched, pleased, as he unpacked a sleek black notebook. He raised his eyebrows at it, and flipped it open to run his fingers over the smooth, creamy paper.

“It’s supposed to be really good fountain pen paper, like you like,” he said. “Some Japanese brand.”

“I can tell the brand just by the feel of it,” Tsukishima said, smiling. “This is my favorite kind. Thank you.”

“Good, I was hoping you could use it to make those stories you’re always saying you want to write.”

“I don’t say I want to write stories.”

“Well you should, you’ve had a few interesting ideas. Write stories about our cats.”

Tsukishima laughed. “Our cats? Those heathens, they’d make awful stories.”

“On the contrary,” Kuroo smiled, kissing his cheek, “I think they’d make entertaining stories.” He picked up the second package. “That one next. Save the other for last, it’s my favorite.”

He unwrapped the one indicated, revealing a slim red tie. “Oh, how lovely,” Tsukishima said, sliding it through his fingers.

“Want to see something even better?” Kuroo grinned, leaning over and flipping it over to show that the inside lining was decorated with tiny black and white cat drawings.

Tsukishima gasped a little, then covered his face with a hand, trying to hide his smile. “It looks _just_ like them. How did you find it?”

Kuroo kissed his cheek. “Internet. You can find anything you’re looking for on the internet.”

“I’ll wear it with pride,” Tsukishima said, turning his face up and allowing Kuroo to kiss him. “Thank you.”

“Ah, ah, there’s one left. I’m most excited about the last one.”

Tsukishima shook his head a little, but he was smiling as he picked up the last box, medium sized, and irregularly shaped. “What in the world could it be?” He pulled out the box, and immediately his thin brows drew down, but with worry or because he was impressed, Kuroo didn’t know. The box was white, with large, black letters embossed on the front: _Visconti._ “Tetsu, you didn’t.”

Kuroo smiled, putting an arm around his shoulders. “Go on.”

Tsukishima slid the white sleeve off, to reveal a sleek black box with the same letters, but in gold. He was shaking his head, even as he pulled the lid of the box off and gasped a little at the dark pen that nestled in the cloth. “Oh my _god._ I don’t believe it.”

Kuroo grinned, so happy that his gift was going over well. “It’s the one you wanted, right?”

He nodded, carefully pulling the pen out of the sleeve and running his fingers over it. “It’s been my Grail pen—the one I’ve wanted for years. How did you find it? Do you know how expensive this is?”

“I bought it, of course I know.” Kuroo laughed. “But you deserve it. I have to say… I did open it before. Just to make sure it was all right. It feels… warm.”

Tsukishima laughed softly, removing the cap of the black and bronze pen. “It’s made of hardened lava, of course it’s warm.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, from Mount Etna. Solid bronze trim…” He trailed off, touching the nib, and the deep bronzed rim of the grip. “I love it. So much. It’s too much… but it’s wonderful. Thank you.”

Kuroo pressed a kiss to his head, hugging him. “I wanted to get you something you wouldn’t get for yourself.”

Tsukishima stared down at it, tracing his fingers over the entirety of the pen. “I’ll have to figure out what ink to put in it. But my next meeting at the offices I’ll take my new pen, my new notebook, and wear my pretty tie, and everyone will be so very jealous.” He looked up, and leaned into Kuroo’s arms. “Your turn.”

“You don’t want to play with it now?”

“All my ink bottles are at home. I promise I’ll ink it up before bed, to make you happy.”

Kuroo smirked at him. “Can I write with it?” And then he laughed, seeing Tsukishima trying to hide his look of horror. “God, never mind. I don’t want to break it.” He stood, moving back to the couch with the yellow and red wrapped box on his lap. He tore the paper off, then slid the airtight lid off, and unfolded the crinkling white paper… and stared, wide eyed. Inside the box were six brand new, sparkling knives. The blades were textured and bumpy to the touch, and the handles curved at just the right angle to be able to be used for hours and hours without straining the fingers or wrist.

“Holy shit,” he whispered, awed. “I’ve been needing new knives for _years_.” He’d been using the same knives for ten years, and the blades were several inches smaller than they should have been, due to religious sharpening each day.

Tsukishima grinned, still holding his pen, leaning forward to look into the box. “I asked around your kitchen, got your chefs to tell me what the most important knives you’d need were. And some of the best brands. Bokuto recommended Global, and I thought the Sai brand looked good.”

Kuroo picked up the large eight inch chef’s knife, the one he’d use more than any other, and balanced the blade on his finger. It was all one solid piece, handle and blade, shining chromium and steel, and nearly weightless. “You can barely even tell they’re real.” He replaced it in the box and stood, going to the island counter to take each out and lay them side by side.

Tsukishima had pocketed his pen and followed him to the counter to lean on it and look them over. “They are pretty, aren’t they?”

There were six, including the long chef’s knife. A small paring knife; a thin, long boning knife; a slender utility knife; a serrated bread knife that even Yaku would whistle at; and a curved carving knife that looked like a small sword. There was even a honing steel tucked in the side of the box. “Shit,” he muttered, touching each and every one of them reverently. “I love them.” He picked up each knife and tested its weight, pressed his thumb against the blade, and felt the way it rocked on the cutting board.

Tsukishima watched him, chin in hand, grinning. “You really do?”

“I really _really_ do.” Kuroo said. He set the blade down, coming around the counter to wrap his arms around Tsukishima and kiss him with all he had. “Thank you so much.”

Tsukishima smiled at him. “We did good for each other. Good Christmas, including the cats.”

Kuroo chuckled, hugging him one last time before stepping away. “You going to be mad if I test them out right now?”

“I expected nothing less.”


	37. ratatouille

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @yikescaninot drew a BEAUTIFUL BOKUTO for this chapter (and my bday!). It has his finished tattoo on it so [ check it out here,](https://yikescaninot.tumblr.com/post/185965481839/my-first-attempt-at-digital-art-was-to-draw-bokuto) love it, reblog it, tell her how amazing she is <3

It was a bright winter day in late January, the snow still heavy on the ground, when Akaashi stepped out the front door of the Center, his little suitcase clutched in his hand. He stared up at the falling snow, his breath fogging the air around his face. Looking down, he saw Bokuto waiting at the bottom of the stairs, smiling up at him. Akaashi smiled back, then raised his wrist to look at his watch, watching the second hand tick around— _tick tick tick tick—_ until it hit the top of the hour.

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Eleven AM. He was _officially_ discharged from the Center.

The snow crunched between his shoes and the frozen concrete of the stairs as he descended the steps. Bokuto watched him come and when he was close enough reached out to gently took the suitcase from his fingers. They looked at each other for a long moment then Akaashi stepped close and slipped his fingers under Bokuto’s leather jacket, sliding his hands up the soft hoodie underneath (Bokuto didn’t own any _real_ winter jackets, and resorted to layering several thinner ones to keep warm in the cold) and clutching his fingers in the fabric as he pressed close.

Bokuto’s arm came up to hook around his shoulders and held him, laying his cheek against his hair, nosing in, his breath warm against Akaashi’s ear. Akaashi shoved his face under Bokuto’s jacket, the soft, earthy scent of it and Bokuto’s clean sweat surrounding him as he hugged his arms tight around Bokuto’s middle. All Akaashi wanted to do was stay here, where it was warm and comfortable, Bokuto’s breath at his ear and holding him tight, so that he felt safe from the entire world. He closed his eyes, let out another long, slow breath. Each exhale in the crisp morning air felt like a weight was leaving him. Each day without Bokuto, having seemed an eternity, suddenly feeling small and distant in the overwhelming presence of the man himself, and the idea that he’d have every day with him now.

Finally, he untucked his face and saw a light dusting of snow across Bokuto’s shoulders. He looked up, saw Bokuto was gazing expectantly at him. “Let’s go home,” Akaashi said.

Bokuto’s answering smile was sweet and soft, and slipped his fingers into Akaashi’s (he never wore gloves—Akaashi wondered how he didn’t freeze to death) so they could walk hand in hand.

 

* * *

 

At the brownstone, Akaashi wasn’t even fully in the door yet when Makki came barreling around the corner and threw himself at Akaashi, flinging his arms around him and screaming, “Oh my _god_ you’re home!”

Akaashi would have fallen had Bokuto not been right behind him, hand steadying on his back, but even still he stumbled a little. Makki’s exuberance caught him by pleasant surprise and he laughed as he hugged him back. “Yeah, I am. Good to see you too. It’s been a while.” They hadn’t seen each other in over almost two months because of holiday traveling and Makki’s busy schedule suddenly filling as the spring photographers prepared for the magazines.

Makki pulled away, hands on Akaashi’s shoulders and held him at arm’s length. “Let me look at you,” he said, doing just that, grinning as he eyed him up and down.

“Fucking Christ,” Bokuto snapped, not meanly, just loudly. “What are you, a southern grandma? Fucking move, you’re lettin’ the cold in.” He shuffled forward, managing to close the big double door and crowding the tiny entryway until Makki scoffed at him and stepped into the hallway to give them room to remove their snow covered shoes.

Makki rolled his eyes at Bokuto, padding away on bare feet and calling, “Dick.”

Akaashi chuckled, removing his jacket and then wiggling his toes in his socks and side-stepping out of the hall to avoid the water soaking into the welcome mat. “Wow, you sound like you really live here now.”

“Yeah,” Bokuto said, “and Mattsun has been asking me to give him some cash to help pay for the rent and fucking _hell_ y’all’s heating bill is stupidly expensive.”

“Old building,” Akaashi explained.

“I think if they wore more than, I dunno,” and here he raised his voice so that the other two could hear him as he struggled out of his boot, “ _more than fucking nothing_ around the house then they wouldn’t be so damn cold all the time.”

Akaashi raised his eyebrows as Bokuto dumped his shoe off and straightened, taking off his outer jacket and hanging it on the coat rack by the door. “You alright?”

“I had to buy a _fan_ for our room,” he said pointedly.

Stunned, Akaashi realized … that yes, it was _their_ room now. “I’ll be sure to bundle up.” He moved into the house, Bokuto behind him, and saw that Mattsun was stretched out on the couch, hand over his eyes, looking like he’d had a long night. “Hello,” he said.

Mattsun opened one eye to look at him, waved his fingers half heartedly. “Welcome back.”

Akaashi stood in the archway to the living room. “Hangover?”

“Show.”

“Ah.” Mattsun was the only one of the house mates that did runway shows—Akaashi was never confident enough in his abilities and Makki simply hated the rush and flurry of them—which brought in a nice chunk of change for the house, but also exhausted him. Especially when they were late or overnight shows, which this one clearly was. “Have you been to bed yet?”

“No.”

Akaashi nodded. “You gonna be ok?”

“Mhm.” Mattsun closed his eyes, sighing. “Bo?”

Bokuto said from beside Akaashi, “There’s leftovers in the fridge from last night.” He paused when he heard Makki banging around in the kitchen. “Don’t die on us now.”

Mattsun flapped a hand at them as he turned over, tucking himself into the couch and settling down. Akaashi tugged on Bokuto’s wrist, and they climbed the stairs to the second floor bedroom. He looked around, smiling at the little things that Bokuto had done to make the room more his own: he had his own laundry basket in the corner, had acquired a beaten up old dresser from somewhere against the foot of the bed that he stacked clean looking clothes on top of instead of placing them in the drawers. He moved to the unmade bed and collapsed on it, burying himself in the pillow and curling up, not needing sleep, but overwhelmed with the joyous knowledge that he was finally, permanently, _home_.

The smell of Bokuto’s shampoo covered the pillow, along with the faint scent of grill smoke and cooked foods from the nights he was presumably too tired to shower. He couldn’t imagine how well he would sleep tonight, in his own bed, his own pillow, _Bokuto_. _Finally_.

“Keiji?” Bokuto said, traces of a laugh in his voice. “You ok?”

Akaashi turned over, smiling at him, reaching his hands out. “C’mere.”

Bokuto set his suitcase down and touched his hands, leaning down as Akaashi slid his palms over his arms and pulled him down for a kiss. He sighed against Akaashi’s mouth, laying over him, careful not to put his weight on him. They kissed to make up for lost time, for every time they were interrupted, for every morning and night they’d gone without each other. Bokuto moved over to lay beside him, one hand cradling Akaashi’s head and the other trailing down his sides, exploring everywhere that had changed since the last time they were in bed together.

Akaashi slid closer, clutching his fingers in his hair, licking at Bokuto’s mouth until he opened it with a gasp, and Akaashi could suck in his breath—the overwhelming _need_ to remember every atom of Bokuto’s body suddenly urging him forward. “Kou,” Akaashi whispered against his lips before kissing him again, hooking his knee around Bokuto’s legs, close, close, closer. “I’ve missed you.”

Bokuto could only murmur wordless in response, and Akaashi realized he was overwhelmed too, by the simple act of laying down together, of being able to hold each other again. “I love you,” Akaashi said, pulling away just enough to trace his lips over Bokuto’s cheek, feeling Bokuto nuzzle down into his neck in response.

“You’re my everything,” Bokuto said softly, so softly, curling against him, arms encircling to hold him fiercely close, as if he was afraid that if he let go that Akaashi would go away again.

Akaashi had known how hard the last four and a half months had been on both of them, that just as he was struggling to recover, Bokuto was struggling, too. It was different, of course, but… it also wasn’t. They’d rooted themselves so deeply in each other’s lives. Bokuto had had nothing and no one for so long… and then he’d had Akaashi, and the other models, and a home, and—suddenly—Akaashi had gone away. He’d never say just how much it had hurt him, but the way he clutched at Akaashi now, he didn’t need to.

Akaashi wrapped his arms around Bokuto’s neck, holding him close. Before he could speak Bokuto said against his skin, “I’m so happy you’re home… I know you needed to go… I know it was hard for you, especially to make the decision to go, but holding you in my arms again I’m the happiest man on the planet.”

Four months ago Akaashi would have said he’d done it for him, for Bokuto, because that’s what he thought needed to be said. But now he knew, even though it hurt to think about sometimes, that he’d needed to get better for himself. It had _started out_ for Bokuto, so he wouldn’t worry; but, somewhere along the way, Akaashi realized that he wanted to get better because he wanted to feel like a person again, and not like a broken down doll on strings simply going through the motions. He still had a ways to go, but he’d come a long way, and fully expected that now he was home again, he’d be able to find the peak of the mountain he’d struggled to climb. Especially with Bokuto here with him, and his friends supporting him, and the prospect of not having to live in fear of every calorie.

There was a knock at the door, making Akaashi startle in surprise. “Hey, Bo,” Makki said through the closed door, “how do I heat up this thing from last night?”

Bokuto frowned, sitting up on one elbow. Akaashi pretended to not see the way his eyes shone as he blinked unshed, emotional tears away. “What thing?”

“This meat thing.”

Bokuto sighed. “It’s literally just—ugh.” He flopped back on the bed, glancing over at Akaashi. “How did you three survive before me?”

Akaashi whispered back with a smile, “Take out.”

He laughed then sat up again, scrubbing his hands through his hair. “Put it in the toaster oven on the counter. Low heat, maybe two fifty, and let it warm till it’s—y’know— _warm_.”

On the other side of the door Makki was quiet while he thought this through. “Ah, okay! Thanks!” And he bounced away, his feet receding down the stairs.

Bokuto shook his head with a smile, rubbing his face with a hand. “Hey, look at this.” He waved a hand, and Akaashi sat up beside him, waiting while Bokuto dug out the photo book he’d had buried under a pile of clothes. He opened it to show Akaashi that he’d filled it with a few more pictures: a shot of Mattsun and Makki eating at the kitchen table, looking annoyed to be having their picture taken; Bokuto taking a selfie in the unused storage room on the third floor, thumbs up to the camera, showing how he’d brought his things _and_ organized the room that hadn’t ever been cleaned; a shot of Akaashi sitting on a park bench, looking affronted as a big dog nosed at his leggings; two of the time they’d gone to the Empire State Building, a view of the city from above, and one of the two of them together in the crowd, the city behind them; one of Bokuto and Hinata flexing their muscles in front of a big mirror and grinning like idiots at the gym; and a snapshot of what looked like his co-workers, all crowded around a big table and looking drunk and happy.

“What’s this one?” he asked, pointing to it.

Bokuto slid it out of the little slot so Akaashi could see it better. “That was Kai’s last night with us. You remember I told you he went back to France to get married?”

“Ohhh.” Akaashi squinted at the picture, grinning. “You guys look _insane_.”

“We are!” Bokuto laughed, looking down at it too. “We’d just finished a _great_ service, Kuroo kicked the ass of some corporate company, I’d just gotten a promotion, and Yaku was drunk as a skunk. It was fun.” He sighed a little longingly. “I miss Kai, I really do.”

Akaashi touched his arm. “You looked up to him.”

Bokuto eyed his fingers, his mouth pinching into a little line. “I do still,” he said, then gently took the picture from his hands to put it back. “So, there’s a few more I need to put in… but I wanted to talk to you about them first.”

Frowning at him, Akaashi sat back, tucking his legs under him to be more comfortable, then gaping when Bokuto moved to get off the bed. “What are they? It’s your book, you can put whatever picture you want in it.” He blinked, suddenly worried. “I mean… even if it’s an ex or something.”

Bokuto turned to him so quickly he nearly tripped over his socked feet. “What?!”

“I—I dunno. You look worried. I know you dated before me, it’s fine if you want to put their pictures—”

But Bokuto was waving his hands grandly, saying, “No, no, no, that’s not—ha! God, no. Jesus.” He unzipped his hoodie, still chuckling, and tossed it into a little pile at the foot of the bed. “Do you remember that day in the park a long time ago? With the painting?”

Akaashi nodded. “Of course.” He narrowed his eyes, watching Bokuto run his fingers through his hair, then fold his arms over his chest, clutching at his arms. “Why?”

“Well.” Bokuto began, then stopped, lips disappearing as he scrunched his face up in frustration.

Akaashi huffed. “Koutarou!”

“Fine, fine, fine! I know, I know,” Bokuto said, flustered, then rummaged through the pocket in the back of the photo book for a moment before he pulled out a larger print, portrait sized, of the picture Saeko had taken of them in the park _way_ back in July. “Here, see?”

Akaashi looked at it, taking it from his fingers. He remembered that day of course, marred as it was by Terushima’s insistent calls and the evening where he’d made a drunken fool of himself. Otherwise it had been a fun day, wandering the park with Bokuto ogling the naked people, the painters, and seeing Saeko again. He remembered the cool paint on his skin, hardening when it dried, and pressing himself against Bokuto’s back; how felt Bokuto’s heart hammering under his palm, the way he held himself still and tense, worried that he’d ruin the picture, but looking like a model himself.

“Okay,” he said, curious. “What about it?”

Bokuto took a deep breath, as if steeling himself. “I need you to close your eyes.”

“What—why?”

“Please just do it. You’ll see.”

Akaashi frowned at him, confusion turning to worry, but he did as he was asked and sat back, closing his eyes. He _felt_ Bokuto wave his hand in front of his face to make sure his eyes were really closed and tried not to laugh, then heard a shuffle of clothing and Bokuto was silent for a solid ten seconds. “Well?”

“Okay,” Bokuto said, the word clipped, his stress and his accent making it sound more like _ho-kay_.

Akaashi opened his eyes, not knowing what to expect, and blinked at what he _did_ see. At first, he didn’t really comprehend the splash of color on Bokuto’s chest and arm, his brain needing a long moment to catch up. Finally, when it did, the colors dissolved into flowers: a large yellow sunflower, vibrant as the sun; the long tongues of lily leaves, orange and elegant, little daisies every shade of blue he could think of, and splashes of tiny blue forget-me-nots dancing in the background. The tattoo covered half his chest, his shoulder, and down his arm to just past his elbow. Bokuto turned his arm slowly, letting Akaashi see more of it, and Akaashi saw a glittering green serpent hidden among the leaves, coiled around his arm and shoulder, it’s head resting over his heart. Akaashi stared, and stared, and stared. Bokuto stood watching him, swallowing nervously. Neither of them spoke, but Akaashi reached out a hand, tentative, and Bokuto moved closer, kneeling so that Akaashi could spend several minutes tracing the vines and petals, the smooth silky looking scales, and lay his palm over Bokuto’s heart, his hand trembling.

Finally, after several long minutes, Bokuto asked, his voice as tremulous as Akaashi’s fingers, “Do you like it?”

Akaashi glanced at his face, but his eyes were drawn back to the colorful pattern almost immediately. “Like it?”

Gently, carefully, as if his words would cause Akaashi to retreat from him, Bokuto said, “I got it for you.”

“Me?” Akaashi’s voice squeaked a little, he was so startled.

It made Bokuto’s lips twitch and he reached up to lay his hand over Akaashi’s, squeezing his hand. “Yes, for you. Because of you. I don’t know… I got it with you in mind. You’ve changed me for the better, Keiji. And I know this seems so… permanent—”

“It is permanent.”

“—and I know a lot of people would never commit to something like this for someone they’ve not even known a year yet. But…” He took a long breath, his chest shaking. “But, like I said, you—you’re—you’re everything to me. I mean that. I’d go anywhere for you, do anything. And… and even if _we_ …. don’t work out”—he squeezed Akaashi’s hand—“for whatever reason. I’ll always carry you with me. In my heart, on my body, in my soul. Everywhere.”

Akaashi felt his breath coming faster, the heat in the back of his throat rising, his vision blurring a little with the tears that came sudden and unexpected.

Bokuto reached his other hand up to cup his cheek. “Keiji? Did I—”

Akaashi threw himself down, wrapping his arms around Bokuto’s neck so hard that Bokuto let out a _oof_ in surprise and fell back, landing with a thud on his back and even knocking his head into the floor. “Oh, god!” Akaashi sobbed, “I’m sorry!” But Bokuto latched his arms around him and held him tight, so tight that Akaashi’s breath actually knocked out of him for a moment. When he loosened his grip Akaashi managed to sit up, hands on Bokuto’s chest, and said, “It’s so pretty. I—Kou, this is—” but he couldn’t say what it was, because he was crying again. He moved back as Bokuto sat up and cradled him in his lap, stroking his hair.

“So you like it?”

“I love you,” Akaashi whispered, cuddling into him, burying his face in his hair. “You’re too good for me.”

Bokuto chuckled, sliding a hand down his back. “Shh, now. I’m just some lowlife idiot who happened to find love and now I do idiot things to make him love me back.”

“Shut up,” Akaashi mumbled, his voice thick. He sniffled, and leaned away to look at the tattoo again, running his fingers over the large petals of the sunflower. “It’s so pretty.”

Bokuto smiled at him, on hand on his arm. “Saeko did it.”

“No! Really?” Akaashi smacked him, not hard, right on the chest. “You said you only got the little knives on your fingers re-done!”

His answering grin was lopsided. “I said no such thing. I told you I had them redone, I didn’t say I wasn’t having anything _else_ done.”

Akaashi shook his head, then stood when Bokuto motioned for him to and sat back on the bed. He picked up the picture, eyeing the same swirls of color, the same artists hand that drew both things. “Do I want to know how much money you spent on it?”

Bokuto shrugged, plopping to sit beside him and reach for the photo book. “Probably not.” He pulled out several more photos to show Akaashi. “I wanted to put these in there, too.”

Taking them, he saw that there were a few progress shots of the tattoo—the initial sketch, outline, the various stages of coloring and detail work—and then he laughed when he saw that one of them was taken in Saeko’s dark red tattoo shop, Bokuto shirtless and showing off his new tattoo and bulging muscles while Saeko stood beside him, grinning like a proud parent. And, finally, a picture that only Bokuto could have pulled off: He stood with his arms out, flexing, and Saeko and her girlfriend each sat on one of his shoulders, kissing over the top of his head.

“You can put any picture you like in it,” Akaashi said, handing the photographs back.

Bokuto smiled at him and slowly, carefully placed each picture in the book, touching each with his finger tips. He looked lost in thought, a smile touching his lips.

Akaashi watched him for a moment, then reached up and stroked his fingers through the back of Bokuto’s hair. He leaned over and kissed one of the little blue flowers and Bokuto glanced over, his smile widening. Akaashi smiled back, leaning his cheek against the flowers.

 

* * *

 

That night Bokuto made Akaashi’s favorite ratatouille for him, a personal pan all his own, but he’d also made a whole roast chicken, the skin crispy and crackling and juices pooling in the bottom of the serving dish whenever he carved off a piece for one of them, plus various sides that he’d been experimenting with. Makki was chatting away about a new movie he’d seen, waving his hands about until Mattsun shot him a pointed look and he lowered them obediently. “So,” he was finishing, “that’s why you should all go see that movie. Best movie, hands down. Ten out of ten.”

Bokuto had forgotten the name of the movie he’d been talking about in the first place, because he’d gone on about six different rants in the middle of explaining the entire plot of the movie.

Akaashi must have forgotten too, or simply not cared, because he was frowning at Makki, head cocked in confusion. “What’s different about you?”

Makki smiled back at him. “Why don’t you tell me?”

Akaashi huffed but squinted at him. Bokuto flicked his gaze between them, amused. He wondered how Akaashi would react to Makki’s new addition to his body. Makki had come home sometime mid-December with a swollen tongue and demanding buckets of ice water and popsicles to soothe the pain. It wasn’t always visible, but it had been recently, and Bokuto had seen flashes of it as he’d talked, and assumed Akaashi had, too, but hadn’t quite placed what it was.

“You got your hair cut?”

Makki passed a hand over his short hair. “Yes, but that’s not it.”

“Oh.” Akaashi pursed his lips in thought, looking him over. “Did… you…” He sounded unsure, and Makki’s grin widened. “I don’t know, have you been working out?”

“No.”

“…I don’t know, then.”

Makki glanced over at Mattsun, his smile as devious as ever. Mattsun’s answering smile was as perverse as Bokuto had ever seen it. “He got it for me as a Christmas present,” Mattsun said, reaching out a hand and stroking it over Makki’s head, fingering the hair at the back of his head in a fond, possessive fashion.

Now Akaashi was _really_ confused. “Excuse me?”

Bokuto snickered then Makki opened his mouth and stuck his tongue out, and there close to the tip a shining metal ball was sitting there.

Akaashi stared wide eyed at him, then his gaze slid over to Mattsun’s face, which was narrow eyed and not bothering to hide the many, many dirty thoughts of what exactly Makki’s face made him think of. “Oh— _gross_!” Akaashi declared, leaning away once he figured out what exactly Mattsun meant when he’d said that Makki had gotten the tongue piercing _for him._ “Gross!” he said again, his face as red as the tomatoes in the starter salad.

“It’s not,” Makki said, grinning. “It’s _really cool_ actually.” He clicked the little metal ball against the back of his teeth, which made an audible _tink tink_ sound, and Akaashi went a bit pale.

“That _hurts me_ ,” Akaashi said, pushing away from the table in an effort to escape.

Makki laughed. “Wait, wait, don’t go!” He stood too, going around the table saying, “I’ve wanted it forever. Be happy for me! Wanna touch it?!”

Akaashi backed away from him like he had the plague. “No, get away from—ack!” He shrieked as Mattsun threw his arms around him in a giant hug. “Mak- _ki_!”

Bokuto watched as Makki did his absolute best to lick Akaashi’s face, or just touch the piercing to his face while Akaashi shouted and struggled. He could tell by the way he was giggling that he wasn’t in real distress though, so he and Mattsun did nothing to intervene, just sat and enjoyed the show.

They became a big, giggling pile of limbs as Makki draped himself over Akaashi, and Akaashi in turn went limp in defense, and they collapsed to the floor. Makki ended up on top, holding Akaashi’s hands and laying full body across him, pressing their cheeks together with a big grin.

Akaashi looked less than amused now, but simply aggravated instead of upset. “I hate you,” he said flatly.

“You love me.”

“No I don’t. Get off me.”

Makki rubbed their cheeks together and Akaashi let out a noise of distress and cried, “Koooooooouuuu help!”

Bokuto grinned, watching with amusement. He’d seldom seen Akaashi so playful, even if he was being attacked by a madman. “I believe in you, Keiji.”

Makki took that opportunity to actually _lick_ Akaashi, dragging the barbell up his cheek. Akaashi flushed and squawked his displeasure. “ _Mattsun_! Call off your dog!”

Beside Bokuto Mattsun was chewing on a chicken leg leisurely, and took a moment to lick his fingers clean of drippings. “I don’t have a dog, babe. I’ve got a puppy.”

Makki wiggled on top of him and Akaashi groaned comically loud, as if the whole world had abandoned him. “I hate _all of you_.”

“Tell me you love me,” Makki demanded, laying his head on Akaashi’s again, looking sideways at him with a big smile.

Akaashi huffed, laying still for a long moment. “… I love you…” he muttered, annoyed.

Makki planted a loud, smacking kiss on his lips before rolling to his feet. He extended a hand to help Akaashi up, but Akaashi stumbled to his feet himself, wiping at his face with his sleeve.

“You’re disgusting. Bleh!” He rubbed at his cheek, scowling. “You betrayed me!” He pointed to Bokuto, then whipped around the doorway to the kitchen and stomped up the stairs. “I’ve got to wash my face now—get the _germs off me_.”

Makki watched him go, grinning, and came to flop at the table again. “That was fun. I haven’t had that much fun with him for years.”

Bokuto smiled at him. “You really licked him?”

“Oh, yeah. You should try it. It’s great fun.”

Mattsun shook his head and Bokuto laughed. “He’d go on a kissing strike, I think.”

“It’s worth it,” Makki grinned, flashing his stud again, and Mattsun caught his chin in his hand and turned his face to kiss him.

“I’ll go check on Keiji,” Bokuto declared, standing from the table as the two of them explored the nuances of Makki’s new piercing themselves.

Upstairs, he found Akaashi shirtless and leaning over the sink, scrubbing water over his face and into his hair. Bokuto stood just inside the bathroom door and watched him until he raised his face and caught Bokuto’s eye in the mirror.

“You abandoned me in my hour of need.”

Bokuto chuckled. “You looked like you handled it just fine.” He moved into the bathroom, glancing over Akaashi’s body—he was still skinny, but not dangerously so, like the one and only other time Bokuto had seen his bare torso. His bones didn’t look like they were about to break skin and he had lean, carefully built muscles along his sides.

Akaashi saw him looking and sighed, picking up a towel and rubbing it over his face. “I didn’t know you’d follow me…”

“If you’re uncomfortable, I can take mine off too.”

Akaashi glanced up at him, then closed his eyes, leaning on the counter, looking like he was in pain.

“I—… I’m sorry,” Bokuto said. “I didn’t mean…”

“It’s okay.” Akaashi bit his lip, then dropped the towel beside the sink and turned, bracing his arms on the sink and leaning down. “I’m just… it’s still hard for me…to…”

Bokuto inched closer, wanting to reach out and touch him, but didn’t. “I know. That’s okay. It was a bad joke on my part.”

“… What am I going to do?” he whispered, searching his own face in the mirror, and scowling.

Bokuto shifted uncomfortably, unsure what to tell him. “I don’t … I dunno, just wait till you feel more comfortable with—”

“Not that,” Akaashi snapped, turning to look at him. “About the rest of my life. I can’t go back to the agency. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’ll probably have to leave the brownstone since I lease it _through_ them. I don’t have a job, I didn’t go to college, I don’t know how to _do anything else._ ”

Bokuto pursed his lips, rubbing the knife scar in a moment of nervousness. It felt funny—he couldn’t actually feel anything on the scar anymore and the only reason he knew he was touching it was the pressure of his fingers. “I told you, you can come work with me.”

Akaashi rolled his eyes. “What—be a bartender forever?”

“Well, I don’t know. At least for now. Until we figure it out.”

Akaashi blinked at him, seeming to realize that he’d been almost shouting, and sighed. He scooped up his shirt from where he’d draped it over the side of the laundry basket and pushed past Bokuto, going back to their room. Bokuto followed him saying, “We’ll find a new place. And maybe you can go to college, I don’t know.”

Akaashi had pulled his shirt on and dropped onto the bed, wrapping himself around a pillow. “I feel like I’m starting my life over…”

“Well… in some ways, I guess you are.” Bokuto came and sat on the edge of the bed beside him, careful not to touch him. “But I’ll be here to help you…”

Akaashi didn’t look at him but curled up tighter. “What if I can’t do anything else?”

“You can, lil’ bird, you can. You just have to find what that is. Find what else you’re passionate about.”

“What if…” but he trailed off before he finished his thought.

Bokuto reached a hand up and touched his head. “I’m sorry… and I don’t know how to help you… other than to tell you that I’m here with you, and I’ll support you in whatever you decide to do.” He paused, stroking his hair. “I’ll back you up. I’ll take care of you when I need to. But you’re stronger than … than just a job. So don’t fret, ok? We’ll figure it out.”

Akaashi was quiet for a long time, letting Bokuto pet his hair while he took rhythmic, calming breaths. Finally, he reached back and took Bokuto’s hand, pulling it up to kiss his knuckles. “Together, yeah?”

“Together.”

Akaashi nodded, pulling him down. “Stay with me for a bit.”

Bokuto lay down behind him, tucking his arm over Akaashi’s waist when he pulled it forward, and they lay like that for a few silent minutes, Akaashi playing with Bokuto’s fingers.

Finally, he said, “You’ll talk to your boss for me?”

“Kuroo? Yeah, sure. Maybe you can go with me sometime before work to talk to him.”

“… give me a week, ok? I just need time to settle.”

“Of course. Just let me know.”

Akaashi turned to face him, sitting up and swiping a hand across his cheek. “Can… can you show me again?”

“What?” Bokuto raised his eyebrow.

“Your tattoo. I’d like to see it again.”

Bokuto smiled and shifted so he could pull his shirt off. Then he lay still while Akaashi leaned over him, tracing the individual petals of the big sunflower one by one, silent and meditative. Bokuto let him, laying perfectly still, until Akaashi began to smile again, and he stopped looking so worried about the weight of the world.


	38. nouvelle

They stood outside the backdoor to _je sais pas_ , Bokuto finishing his cigarette and attempting to scrape most of the snow off his boots. Akaashi watched him, a little annoyed that Bokuto seemed to have forgotten his promise to quit smoking, but also knowing that his new position was stressful to him, even if he tried to pretend otherwise.

“You sure this is a good idea?”

Bokuto looked up, one hand bracing himself on the wall. “Hm?” He straightened, blowing a stream of smoke from his lips. “Of course it is.”

Akaashi dug the toe of his shoe into the snow. “I’m just worried…”

“No reason to be,” Bokuto said, smiling. “You remember how to do the bar stuff, yeah?”

“… More or less.”

“That’s all you need. Even if you didn’t, Kuroo would have someone teach you how to do it.”

Akaashi let out a long, frustrated sigh. “I guess.”

Bokuto pulled out an overly large keyring from his pocket and with a deft, practiced movement found the right key to open the back door. He ushered Akaashi inside as he said, “I promise. Just talk to him—he likes honesty, and no bullshit.”

Inside the still-slumbering kitchen—burners off, lights dim, only the hum of the coolers in the hall making any sound— Akaashi shifted nervously from foot to foot. He’d come to the restaurant early with Bokuto to talk to Kuroo about a job at the bar… and he was so in his head and scared he thought he might just shrivel up and die. “…m’kay…”

Bokuto pulled the door closed behind him then touched Akaashi’s elbow to get his attention. “Don’t worry, okay? He’s really nice.” Akaashi followed him to the big glass walled office and Bokuto said, “Just wait here for a sec, I gotta go get him.”

Akaashi perched on the end of one of the chairs, his heart in his throat and his stomach twisting so much he wanted to curl into a ball on the floor to try and ease the pain. “Okay.”

Bokuto smiled at him and vanished down the hall, stripping his jackets as he went. Akaashi took a shaking breath and began slowly taking off his gloves, one finger at a time, wondering if this was really the best thing for him to do. It was better than going back to modeling, because the thought of that made him go into a panic with war-like PTSD flashbacks. But he wondered if he could work at—he didn’t know—some sort of perfume counter or jewelry store or something instead of the bar. It might be good to change up everything in his life. But… then again, if he did manage to get the job here, he’d have almost the same schedule as Bokuto, and always the same day off, at least. That was the best part of the job, he thought.

Then Bokuto was back in his unbuttoned chef coat, sleeves rolled up to almost his shoulders—and Akaashi was tickled to death to see that the colors of the tattoo were so vibrant they could be seen under the white cloth. He had a piece of bread in his mouth, chewing as he talked, “Here, try this.”

He tore off a chunk and offered it so confidently that Akaashi simply reached out and took it, then gasped at how hot it still was. He’d never had bread so fresh, the fluffy insides still hot and steaming, the outside practically burning his fingers. Not knowing what else to do, he took a bite, and he sighed a little with pleasure. The bread was pillow soft—it didn’t even need butter it was so sweet and thick, tasted vaguely of salt and the nutty, back-of-the-mouth aromatics of yeast. “Goodness,” he managed, pulling apart another bite of it even as it burned the tips of his fingers. It was worth it.

Bokuto grinned. “Right? Suga’s a god of bread. It’s delicious.”

“Really is,” Akaashi muttered, pulling a piece of the fluffy white insides and eating it.

Kuroo came around the corner, wiping his hands on an apron and looking a little less put together than every other time Akaashi had seen him—coat halfway unbuttoned, no bandana in his hair, a casual, loping walk—but no less intimidating. That said something significant, Akaashi thought, since he was _dating_ the other most visually intimidating person he’d ever met. He stepped inside his office, slipping past Bokuto and saying, “It’s good to see you again.”

Bokuto leaned one shoulder on the door, picking apart pieces of bread and chewing on them. Akaashi glanced at him and then, hoping his voice didn’t betray how nervous he was, said to Kuroo, “You too. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

Kuroo smiled, then looked up at Bokuto. He stared at him, folding his fingers and resting his chin on them until Bokuto realized he was being silently dismissed.

“I’ll go do the walk-in inventory before everyone else shows up,” he said. He winked at Akaashi, popped the last of his bread in his mouth and sauntered away. Akaashi watched him go, heart fluttering high in his throat, feeling like he’d lost his safety float in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

Kuroo tapped his fingers on his chin for a moment before saying, “So.”

Akaashi blinked, clutching his gloves in his hands so he didn’t do anything stupid with them. “Yes?”

Kuroo watched him for what felt like an eternity, searching his face, then he leaned back, drumming his knuckles on his desk. “I told you that when you were ready we’d talk. So, talk.”

Akaashi blinked at him, unsure what he wanted to hear. “I… don’t know…what—”

Kuroo shook his head a little. “Tell me why I should hire you.”

Akaashi looked away, unable to meet his eyes. He fiddled with his gloves as he tried to put together his thoughts. “Bokuto said—”

“Bokuto does not hire my chefs. Bokuto _is_ a chef. He works _for_ me.”

Akaashi said, “I thought you told your chefs that they work _with_ you.”

Kuroo’s eyes narrowed, but amusement glittered in them and on his lips. “Smart-ass.”

Akaashi pursed his lips, pulling at a string on his gloves, accidentally making a hole and sighing. “I… Honestly, I don’t know why you should pick me over any other … applicant. I’m no better than them, probably. I know how to do classic drinks, I’m good with people, and I can learn anything you want to teach me.” He shrugged, finally looking up. “I can say that I’ll work hard. I can tell you that I won’t slack off. That’s about it, I guess.”

Kuroo cocked his head, looking him over with sharp, steel-gray eyes. Akaashi did his best not to fidget. Kuroo asked, “You said you knew classic cocktails? Can you tell me how to make…” he trailed off for a moment, thinking, “a martini?”

Akaashi knew he made a face like he thought Kuroo was stupid, because Kuroo laughed at him. “Are you serious?”

“Can you or can’t you?”

Now he did roll his eyes. “It’s just vodka and vermouth. Or gin, whatever.”

“And what about a Manhattan? We have people order those all the time.”

Akaashi had to force himself to not roll his eyes again. This was stupid. “Koutarou told me this wasn’t an interrogation.”

Kuroo laughed, leaning forward again. “He had an _audition_ after nearly cutting his hand off. Would you like to try to impress me that way?”

“I’d like to think I’m careful enough to not cut my hand off.”

They shared a long, level look, Akaashi trying his best to pretend that Kuroo didn’t scare him. Then Kuroo stood and waved a hand. “Take your coat off and come with me.”

He leaned out of his office and whistled a very shrill whistle down the hall, then he led Akaashi out to the dining area of the restaurant and over to the large bar in the corner. Akaashi had always liked the way the hardwood looked gleaming against the soft lights from overhead and glittering with all the liquor bottles along the shelves behind the bar and the empty wine glasses hanging over head.

Kenma was marking bottles off on a clipboard and raised a questioning eyebrow at Kuroo as he directed Akaashi towards the bar. Akaashi waited nervously as Oikawa wandered over, bringing a large black tub of cutlery and cloth napkins so he could sit at the bar and roll them into elegant, complicated knots.

Kenma said, “Don’t scratch the bar,” but Oikawa didn’t even acknowledge this statement.

Bokuto and Suga came out, too, and Kuroo waved a hand to them to come over. “So, there are”—he made an exaggerated show of counting everyone—“five of us. So, make us five drinks— anything you want. Anything at all.”

Akaashi blinked at him, glancing over at Bokuto, who had taken up a place at the bar on one of the tall stools. Bokuto shrugged, grinning, and Kenma slipped from behind the bar to perch beside Oikawa and help roll cutlery. Akaashi moved behind the bar, glancing at all the bottles on the shelves, the handful of wine bottles and chilled beers in the little mini-fridge, lines of soda cans, containers that would hold garnishes or pieces of fruit during service but now sat empty because Kenma hadn’t done the prep yet. “Just… anything?” he asked, opening a large drawer and finding several mixers there.

Kuroo slid onto a stool, resting his chin on his fingers and watching Akaashi in a way that made him feel inadequate. “Anything you want.”

Akaashi ran a finger over the silver mixing shaker, thinking. He knew Kuroo liked scotch (the Scottish kind), he knew Bokuto could drink a whole bottle of whiskey by himself (he had the first night they’d met), he knew that Oikawa preferred wine over anything else, and that Kenma didn’t like the taste of strong liquor. He turned to Suga and asked, “What do you like?”

Suga shrugged, flipping through something on his phone. “Honestly? I like a good quality, cold, clean beer.”

“Oh,” Akaashi said, feeling a little better. There were some under the bar, and he crouched to read the labels until he saw one that seemed appropriate, then he pushed it over to him and Suga beamed, delighted.

“Can we drink this—”

But Kuroo waved his hand in dismissal and Suga used a small knife to pop the top off. Akaashi looked through the wine selections, ones that had been opened already and poured by the glass, and decided on one that he thought Oikawa might like, then passed him a glass. The smile on Oikawa’s face as he plucked it up told Akaashi that he’d done well. He paused, turning to look over the liquor bottles, bitters, and liqueurs. “Bo?”

“Yes?” Even without looking at him, Akaashi could hear the smile in his voice.

“Could you go get me an orange? And a lemon? And a knife?”

Five minutes later Akaashi had made three drinks and Bokuto had sucked down half of his in one large gulp. He’d made each to honor whatever drink he knew they liked or, in Kenma’s case, the fact that he didn't but (if he'd been a customer) had ordered a cocktail anyway.

Bokuto chewed on the little orange slice he'd plucked from his drink, laying his head on the bar and smiling at Akaashi like he’d hung the moon. Akaashi frowned at him, wondering if the peel was bitter and why he was eating it. Bokuto reached both hands out until Akaashi touched his knuckles to his palms and allowed Bokuto to wrap his fingers around his wrists.

“Have you seen our drink menu?” Kenma asked, using the little black stir straw to poke a twist of lemon peel in the drink he held.

“No?” Akaashi said. Kenma nodded, taking a sip of the drink and setting it down. He and Kuroo shared a silent, quick conversation with their eyes that Akaashi missed because Bokuto tickled his wrists with his fingers and he had to pretend to be mad about it.

“Well,” Kuroo began slowly, poking the ice in his drink, “you made them quickly, I’ll give you that.”

Bokuto said, “Mine’s delicious.”

Kenma pointed out, “Two of them weren't mixed drinks.”

“He said ’anything’ and some people don't like them.”

Kenma shrugged, setting the drink down, then pushing it towards Bokuto when he reached for it.

“What's this?”

“Mostly grapefruit juice,” Kenma said, sounding bored as he came around the bar again, clipboard in hand.

Bokuto drank the whole thing in one big gulp, to which everyone at the bar gave him a scathing look. “What?”

Oikawa stood, picking up his tub of cutlery. “Well this was fun,” he said cheerily as he went back to a more comfortable booth.

“So?” Bokuto asked, standing and picking up the empty glasses.

Kuroo slid off his stool, twisting the glass in his hands. “Come with me,” he said to Akaashi. In his office he shot Bokuto an annoyed look. “That is not how you carry glasses.” He said this because Bokuto had the two mixers Akaashi had used, and three differently shaped bar glasses in one hand while he slung the other over Akaashi’s shoulder in a hug.

Akaashi twisted his fingers together, trying to pretend that he was more mature than Bokuto in the workplace as Bokuto nuzzled his nose across his neck.

“I won’t drop them.” Bokuto laid his head on Akaashi’s shoulder, smiling at Kuroo.

“Are you going to act like a lovesick puppy from now on?”

Bokuto lifted his head with a smile. “You mean like during _work hours_?”

Kuroo spent several minutes digging through the drawers of his desk, swearing softly. “Where…”

Akaashi glanced at Bokuto, who put a hand on his head and pulled him over for a kiss. Then Kuroo said, “Ah, here we go,” and dropped a stack of papers on his desk. “Alright, come fill these out. Bo, go away. Get back to work.”

Bokuto grinned, big and wide. “Shit, yeah!” He kissed Akaashi again and twirled out of the office. A moment later they both heard a loud _crash_ and the tinkling of glass sliding across the floor.

Kuroo’s face was a carefully controlled mask of aggravated patience. He didn’t do anything other than raise his voice to call, “Bokuto?”

From around the corner Bokuto’s voice, compliant and nervous, “Yes?”

“Did you break those glasses I told you not to break?”

Akaashi pressed his lips together, trying not to laugh.

“…No.”

Kuroo raised an eyebrow. “What was that noise, then?” He met eyes with Akaashi, and they both cracked a smile.

It was quiet for a moment then Bokuto said, “Aliens!” and they heard the tinkling of glass as it was swept up into a pile.

Kuroo rolled his eyes while Akaashi laughed into his fist. “Here, just fill this out,” Kuroo told him, sliding the papers over and plucking a pen from a cup on his desk.

Akaashi took the proffered pen and smiled at the heading of the paper: _Employee Information._

As he began writing basic information down Kuroo said, “So the bar schedule is pretty simple. Service typically only needs one, so I’m going to have you shadow Kenma and Hinata each for a week—they run it differently, both well, and you can figure out how you’d like to do it from them. As long as my customers are happy, Oikawa is happy, my bar is profitable, and no inventory is missing I don’t really care _how_ it’s done.”

Akaashi was nodding. “Sounds reasonable.”

“After your training period, usually I let the bar guys figure out what days they want to work.” He paused, tapping a finger on a printed out time sheet and frowning. “Kenma will probably leave soon, so the three of you will need to split up the days. Sometimes, on days I know will be busy, usually Fridays or Saturdays, I’ll have both of you come in during dinner service, and sometimes that’s short notice.”

“That’s fine,” Akaashi said, pausing at the _Current Address_ line. “The agency had us do lots of things short notice. I’m flexible.” He didn’t know how much longer he’d be _at_ the brownstone. Now that he knew he had a new job he would tell them he wasn't coming back. He’d hinted at it the last time he'd spoken to his agent, but now it was official. And since he was subletting his room from the agency… he and Bokuto would have to move. He felt awful about it, and hadn't figured out a way to tell Bokuto yet. He'd finally found a home he truly loved after being transient his entire adult life, and Akaashi was upset to be taking that away from him.

“So can you come in next week?”

Akaashi looked up, halfway through writing the address down. “That soon?”

Kuroo nodded. “Yes… I know Kenma really wants to put his full time into his game so I want to let him go as soon as possible.”

“Oh, yeah, Kou mentioned something about video games,” Akaashi said, glancing up from the form. Kuroo leaned on his hand, looking forlorn. “You think he’ll do well?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah. I’ve seen the game, and played some of the early versions. It’s _really_ good.”

“That’s good. Hopefully it works out for him.”

Kuroo nodded. “It’s been his dream ever since high school.”

It took almost an hour to fill out all the paperwork, bank forms, tax forms, a hundred other forms required. By the time they were done most of the other employees of the restaurant were there and working, the sounds and smells and banter of the kitchen were prominent as they left the office. Bokuto looked over from where he was cutting up some carcass of something pink and fibrous and waved Akaashi over. “You done?”

Akaashi glanced nervously at Kuroo before carefully inching his way towards the counter. “Yes, I’m going home for now.”

Bokuto pouted but his hands were covered in blood so the effect was a little lost. “You don’t want to stay for lunch?”

Akaashi stared pointedly at the carcass on the cutting board. “No, I’ll go home and eat.”

“Oh,” Bokuto mumbled, seeming to realize his mistake. “Well, just remember the things I made for you. Just put one in the oven for, like, twenty minutes.”

“I know,” Akaashi said, smiling. He stood on his toes and kissed Bokuto’s cheek, being careful to avoid touching him otherwise. “I’ll see you when you get home.”

 

* * *

 

Bokuto was just switching all his pocket things from his checkered chef pants to his jeans when he realized that Kuroo hadn’t come in to change clothes. He sighed, because that meant he was thinking of staying _extra_ late, and wandered out of the locker room to find him. “What are you doing?” he asked when he saw that Kuroo was in his office bent over papers and drawings of plating designs.

“Menu. I want to be done with it by the end of the week so we can start working on perfecting it with the staff.” Kuroo’s voice was far away as he scratched his head with his pencil.

Bokuto frowned at him and took a moment to _really_ study him. He’d been stressed all day after prep, and had spent several hours holed up in his office, presumably doing this. Bokuto wondered if this was _normal_ stress or _too much thinking_ stress. It was just past midnight and Bokuto knew that Kuroo had been there since at least eight or nine that morning. He knew they’d eaten lunch together—had Kuroo eaten dinner? He couldn’t remember. Service had been fine, even if Kuroo had been a little quiet. It wasn’t an emergency, not yet. No need to use his _Get Kuroo Away from Work_ card yet, then.

He moved over to the desk and picked up one of the papers with the plating design on it. “What’s this?” It was hard to tell what exactly it was with no color. Some sort of poultry leg, some sort of round thing, and a sauce. But without color it was impossible to know for sure.

Kuroo glanced up, squinting at it for a moment. Did Kuroo need glasses? “Duck leg, potatoes, a blackberry and port sauce.”

“Oh,” Bokuto said, looking back at the drawing and imagining it. “Mhm, yummy, you know I like your duck.”

“You’d be cooking it. You’re the _rotisseur._ ”

“Oh, damn.”

“Mhm-hmm.”

Bokuto sat in one of the chairs and inched closer to the desk, figuring that if Kuroo was staying for a little longer, he could too. He’d text Akaashi in half an hour if they weren’t gone by then to let him know. He picked up another paper, and scowled at the words. “Dude,” he said, “you need to go back to school. I can’t read your writing at—ah fuck. Why is all this in _French_?”

Kuroo let out a breath, not bothering to look up from writing something else and, when Bokuto leaned over to see, that too was in French. “I think about food better that way.”

“In French?” Bokuto asked, dubious.

“Nine years,” Kuroo explained.

Bokuto thought a moment, remembering too-green screens and a little angry owl telling him it was time to study. “Quoi…. c’est?”

Kuroo blinked at his paper. Set his pencil down. Looked up at Bokuto. _Stared_ at him. His face said that Bokuto might have just spit in his ear. “What did you say?”

Bokuto beamed. “You know what I said!”

Kuroo’s face pinched into a disgusted, stupefied expression.

“Hey, man,” Bokuto said, “that’s not a good look for you.”

“What the fuck?” Kuroo asked, snappish and immediately moody.

“Look, look,” Bokuto said, pulling out his phone and showing Kuroo his Duolingo app. “The mean little owl is teaching me.”

Kuroo squinted at the phone then rolled his eyes. “Bokuto—don’t use this to learn French.”

“Well you wouldn’t teach me.”

“You never _asked_.”

Bokuto rolled his eyes. “So teach me.”

Kuroo rolled his eyes a little, but he was grinning. “The phrase you’re looking for is: _qu’est-ce que c’est_.” He wrote it as he said it and turned the paper to show him the words.

Bokuto shook his head, tapping the words with his finger. “That doesn’t make any sense. It’s too long.”

Kuroo pointed to each word. “It literally means: what it is that it is. It’s just a linguistic thing. Learn the phrase, it’s easier that way.”

He stared at the words, trying to commit them to memory, then pointed to a paragraph Kuroo had written. “So, what’s all this, then?”

“Oh, it’s like a chef’s menu.” He turned the paper around so that Bokuto could read it as he pointed to each line and translated: “ _The world, this morning, gave us a palate of tastes._ ” He noticed Bokuto giving him a strange look and explained, “It’s like… an overwhelming sensation on the tongue. Flavors and textures and everything.”

“Ohhh,” Bokuto said, liking the simplicity of the phrase.

Kuroo continued with the rest of the phrase: “ _Let yourself be guided by the improvisation of the cooks. It’s a green walk_ —well, no, I guess it's a colloquialism, like a walk in the garden— _that the Chef offers, an association of the senses._ ”

Bokuto pursed his lips, brow furrowing in thought. “Oh yeah? That’s interesting.”

“It’s basically a ‘you get what we want to give you’ thing,” Kuroo explained. “We’ll have our core menu of a few items, of course. But this is basically a specials menu. We can use it to… play.” His smile was effervescent and contagious, and Bokuto grinned back at him.

“That sounds fun! We can just experiment and stuff?”

Kuroo held up a finger. “Within reason.”

“Sure, sure.”

“But, while we’ll have this—we’ll also have these.” He shuffled through some papers and pulled out several that looked like mad-scientist notes for food: frantic notes, arrows pointing every which way and weaving in between the words, crossed out words, and hastily underlined ideas.

“It’s in French,” Bokuto pointed out.

Kuroo didn’t dignify that with a response, and instead leaned over to explain his dishes. His was excited, in awe of the cooking methods and how they transformed the ingredients. Bokuto listened with rapt attention, occasionally offering suggestions on dishes, which Kuroo would write down and they would spend ten or twenty minutes discussing and debating the merits or pitfalls of. Halfway through Bokuto texted Akaashi to say that he’d be late.

A bit late.

A bit _later_ , anyway.

After going over the entire menu several times Kuroo said, “You want to pick the cheeses for the cheese course? I’ve got a list of maybe twenty that I like but we need to narrow it down to six.”

“Fuck no.” Bokuto laughed. “I ain’t got the palate for that.”

“Cause you eat at McDonalds,” Kuroo muttered with a roll of his eyes and an over-exaggerated flick of his wrist.

Bokuto jumped up, yanking his shirt up to his chest and pointing at his belly—which was no longer anything except _muscle_ and Bokuto was extremely proud of that fact. “Not in, like, three months!”

“Okay? Good for you, that shit’s trash food.” He shook his head, motioning Bokuto to sit back down. “Anyway, I’ll just do it, I guess—”

“Bro,” Bokuto told him, taking the pages that had his cheese selections on it, “ask Inuoka or Tora to help you. Or, shit, your fucking boyfriend. He’s like a super-taster, right?”

“He doesn’t like that phrase.”

“Or Oikawa. He does wine, he’s probably good with delicate things.” He shrugged, beginning to gather up the papers into a neat stack. “Look, just let someone help you.”

“I thought you were helping me,” Kuroo said, trying to take back some of the papers.

Bokuto held them out of his reach. “Let everyone help you. You hired us because you needed a _team_ right? A brigade, yeah? So let us help you. I’m sure if you asked more people would stay late, or come in early.”

Kuroo leaned back in his chair, the set of his mouth looking like he’d already been rejected. “I feel bad asking them to—”

Bokuto cut him off, “Don’t. Dude, really. We want this just as badly as you do, don’t you get that?” He stood and set the stack of papers on the edge of the desk. “Come on, now. It’s almost two, we gotta go home to our men.” Kuroo made to protest, reaching for the papers, but Bokuto grabbed his wrist and pulled him to his feet. “Come on. Suga will be here soon. Our menu will be here tomorrow, we’ll work on it then—okay?”

Kuroo allowed himself to be led from his office and out of the restaurant. He pulled on his jacket as Bokuto locked the door and said, “You don’t think it’s too much?”

Bokuto barked a sharp laugh, giving the door a tug to make sure it was locked. “Fuck no. I worked at a place with _thirty-six pages_ to its menu. This dainty little French thing ain’t shit.”

Kuroo laid a hand on his chest, as if Bokuto had stabbed him or he was having heart attack. “How the fuck did you survive your youth?”

“It was last year.”

Kuroo shook his head adamantly. “That’s—” but he stopped, mouth working, and shook his head again. “No words, Bo. It’s a miracle you turned out as well as you did,” he said, then scowled at Bokuto as he lit a cigarette. “Well, as well as could be expected considering your sordid abuse of your body.”

Bokuto blew a plume of smoke in his general direction. “You’re one to talk.”

“Dick.” Kuroo glowered at him, waving his hand in the air as they began walking towards the corner. “What time are you coming in tomorrow?”

“What time are _you_ coming in?”

Kuroo huffed, kicking at a can someone had crumpled for several paces until he aimed it towards a pile of trash. “I don’t know. Ten, maybe? Nine?”

“Make it eleven,” Bokuto told him. “It’ll be, what, two-thirty, three in the morning when you get home? Get some sleep—you’ll think better.” He chuckled, and said, “You’ll eat better.”

“That sounds false.”

Bokuto shrugged, pressing his knuckles against Kuroo’s cheek. “Sleep, ok?”

Kuroo smiled at him, and patted his hand fondly. “ _Toi aussi_ , _mon frère._ ” When Bokuto cocked his head in confusion he translated, “You too.”

But Bokuto was smiling. A thick, gooey warmth flooded his chest as he recognized the second thing Kuroo had said. He’d said it to _Kai_. He was saying it to _him_ now. “That other thing means brother!” He laughed, and whooped, throwing a fist in the air. “Bro!” They knocked knuckles, Bokuto rather enthusiastically so that Kuroo yelped and clutched at his hand.

“Go home!” Kuroo yelled at him, laughing and waving a hand into traffic to try to hail a cab.

Bokuto pointed a finger at him as he backed away. “Don’t go in until I text you. You’re not allowed.”

Kuroo scoffed at him. “I’m not allowed in my own restaurant?” He yanked open the door of the cab that pulled up beside him.

“Not until you _sleep_.” Bokuto turned and waved a hand over his shoulder, heading towards Akaashi and home.

 

* * *

 

**_Le Menu Guidé_ **

_Le monde, ce matin, nous a offert un palais gustatif._

_Laissez-vous guider par l'improvisation des cuisiniers._

_C'est une balade verdoyant que le Chef vous propose, une association des sens._

 

The world, this morning, gave us a palate taste.

Let yourself be guided by the improvisation of the cooks.

It is a garden walk that the Chef offers, an association of the senses.

 

In the weeks that followed the entire kitchen staff willingly came in hours early to begin building the menu together. Kuroo spent an entire morning explaining his ideas and the chefs, being an opinionated bunch, told him what they thought, or any ideas they had, with each one getting long discussions by everyone around the long table. Some of them worried about the intricacies of the menu, but Kuroo promised them that they’d work at perfecting the cooking of each component individually so that the building of each dish wouldn’t be so difficult.

 

**LA CARTE TOUS LES JOURS**

**L’HOR D’ŒVRE CHAUDS**

_9 escargots en coquille, beurre d’ail, fines herbes_ (9 snails in shell, garlic butter, herbs)

 

_Lobster bisque avec crostini et les herbs_

 

**L’HOR D’ŒVRE FROIDS**

_Notre pâté en croûte, cœur de laitue à l’huile de noix et chapons aillés_ (heart of lettuce with walnut oil and winged capons in a fresh crust)

 

 _Tartare de trait au saumon avec caviar pressé et tomates_ (salmon trout tartare with pressed caviar and tomatoes)

 

 **LES FROMAGES** \- _Vous recevez six fromages avec des baguettes fraîches._ (Six cheese plate with fresh baked baguette slices.)

 

After three weeks, they’d decided on a final menu and Kuroo made everyone _binders_ (Bokuto and Oikawa discussed how long they thought this took and both came to the agreement that the pictures, detailed cooking processes, and the plethora of fonts deemed a multitude of hours). He passed these out and told the chefs to read through and _understand_ the recipes, not memorize them. “A recipe is simply a _guideline_ ,” he said grandly as he personally handed one to each chef. Bokuto poured himself into his, perfecting each technique that was new to him and relearning old ones until Kuroo deemed him good enough to teach the slower learners. The moment Kuroo told him, “ _C’est parfait_!” in an excited, overly-happy tone while taking a second, then a third bite of his dish and then calling the others to taste it Bokuto knew he’d _really_ made it into the ranks of the chefs he’d always admired. He felt like an equal, and not like a petty mortal struggling to catch up to the gods of the culinary world.

 

**LA TERRE**

_Agneau rôti, la souris comme une côtelette confite, ragoût de fèves en chartreuse d'asperges_ (Roasted lamb, mouse like a chop confit, bean stew in asparagus chartreuse)

 

 _Cuisse de canard confite, pommes de terre en persillade_ (Duck leg confit, potatoes in persillade)

 

 _Filet au bœuf, sauce bordelaise à la moelle, gratin de macaroni_ (beef fillet, bordelaise sauce with marrow, macaroni gratin)

 

And then Bokuto himself began to teach the others—discovering that he _really_ enjoyed the act of passing along knowledge. He took special care to work with Yuuki and Inuoka because of all the chefs they were the least experienced and most scared of the new menu. He taught them how to open oysters and humanely cook lobsters, how to cut filets from the sides of beef and the break down the whole salmon Kuroo would order, how to tie off lamb and duck, prepare bones for marrow extraction, and the delicate making of all the new sauces they’d need.

It took Yuuki a few days to warm up to actually asking Bokuto questions because, even though they’d spent months working together, they had never really _talked_. Most of their interactions were Bokuto screaming at him from the line to _hurry up_ or bring him things for his station from the walk-ins. But Bokuto learned that he’d graduated top of his class in culinary school, and that he had a lot of ideas that he wanted to perfect, and someday he wanted to have his own restaurant—not like _je sais pas_ , but a homegrown, family-style place with long tables that asked you to _get to know your neighbors._ He’d grown up in Maine but his mother had been from Alabama, and she taught her love of southern cuisine to her son.

And when Bokuto learned _that_ … then they had a lot to talk about. Being from Georgia, Bokuto had a love of good southern food that rivaled his love of Kuroo’s cooking. They dictated their favorite family recipes to each other that had been passed down to them from grandparents and great-grandparents and, on one memorable day, had discussed the merits of _bacon fat_ and the best things to cook in it.

The answer: everything. But collard greens was a top ranking participant.

 

**LA MER**

_Hu_ _îtres en nage glacée, huîtres concassées, granité algue et citron_ (ice-cold oysters; crushed oysters; seaweed and lemon granita)

 

 _Du saumon "figé" sur la glace, consommé brûlant, perles de citrons_ (Salmon "frozen" on the ice, hot consommé, lemon pearls)

 

 _Homard rôti, petite salade en carapace_ (roasted lobster, small carapace salad)

 

Kuroo spent three days in the pastry shop with Yaku, Lev, and Suga (who was working doubles even though Kuroo told him he didn’t have to stay). The four of them made many desserts—crème patisserie, choux pastries, chocolate cakes and puddings, so much caramel that the dish boys began complaining about the long soak times and politely asked them to _please pay attention to your pans, burned caramel is a bitch to clean._

The dessert menu was as big as the rest of the menu combined, each day with different choices. Bokuto asked if that was wise, and Kuroo explained that the pastry chefs had decided amongst themselves to accept the task of a large menu. The four of them agreed that, as it is with many restaurants, the dessert menus were oftentimes the last thing on any chefs’ mind and, as a consequence, often fell short. They endeavored to remedy this fact with complicated, delicious offerings that would be irresistible and memorable to everyone that came through their doors. Kuroo said that he didn’t mean to cause them more work, but as he’d explained the French desserts he was having trouble picking between Yaku had declared, “And what makes you think that we can’t do them all? Where’s your faith in us?”

 

**LES DESSERTS**

_Tous les jours:_

_Glaces et sorbets maison_ (Daily house ice cream and sorbets. Flavors vary.)

 

Lundi: _fermé_

 

Mardi: 

_Honey Cakes -_ springy cake with local honey and sugar cage

 _Chocolat Religieuse -_ Chocolate _crème pâtissière_ between two choux pastry cases joined with buttercream and covered with chocolate ganache

 

Mercredi:

_Saint Honoré—_ to honor the Patron Saint of Pastry Chefs—a ring of puff pastry and cream puffs filled with crème pâtissière and dipped in softly cracking caramelized sugar

_French Lemon Tart with meringue_

 

Jeudi:

_Île flottante -_ a call to childhood; baked meringue “island” floating on a sea of crème anglaise

 _Tarte Tatin -_ caramelized baked French apple tart

 

Vendredi:

_Bugnes Lyonnaises -_ fried strips of puff pastry covered in confectioners sugar

 _Chocolate Profiteroles -_ baked pastries filled with chocolate cream and covered in hot chocolate ganache

 

Samedi: 

_Simply Vanilla Soufflée_

_Chocolat Gâteau_ \- a classic chocolate cake—layers of chocolate cake with chocolate buttercream

 

Dimanche:

_Kouign Amann -_ Many layers of bread dough folded and rolled between layers of butter and sugar.

_Éclairs aux chocolat_

 

Akaashi finished his training and though Kuroo didn’t pick either him or Hinata as the new official _manager_ of the bar, Akaashi had told Bokuto that Hinata said he didn’t want the responsibility, so as soon as Akaashi had several months under his belt he’d probably get the job. Hinata said he didn’t mind, and in fact it would be a relief to not have to spend hours every week doing inventory and counting every little thing.

And one day during the family meal Kenma said, rather out of the blue, “Today is my last day,” in such a flat, detached tone as he read a book and chewed on a piece of broccoli that everyone knew he was hurting. Bokuto and Kuroo had talked about it and Bokuto could tell that, even though the job was exhausting to the little blond man, he’d liked his job. But, as everyone agreed as the discussion went to what he was going to do with his time, they were all excited for him to begin the final tests for his game and work with a developer to begin to get it into the stages of publication. Everyone told him they’d buy it, and he flushed with happiness even as he said, “That’s not necessary. It could be years before it’s out.”

Bokuto _loved_ sitting beside Akaashi every day at lunch, able to talk to him about all the things he was learning, and doing, and seeing how far he’d come. Akaashi still struggled sometimes with the things that were offered, but he would quietly ask Bokuto to tell him every detail about the dish, and Bokuto would do his best to talk Akaashi into falling in love with each bite so that it wouldn’t be quite so hard for him. But the days that he couldn’t Bokuto would take him to the dining room in a quiet corner and listen to him talk about the reasons why he didn’t think he could eat that thing or touch that piece or would simply sit and hold his hand, quietly telling him all the ways that he’d grown and how proud Bokuto was of him, and that it was okay, and that he was there with him, and anything else he could think of until Akaashi smiled again and the weight of the world seemed to lift from his shoulders.

One day Bokuto went into the dining room, meaning to ask Kuroo if he wanted to take care of the small argument between Tora and Fukunaga about the proper way to season broth for oyster steaming or if he should do it, when he heard Akaashi say to Kuroo, “Just don't let Bokuto know—” but he stopped when he saw Bokuto standing there, and visibly swallowed.

Kuroo turned his head, also looking like a kid caught with his hand in the candy jar. “Hey, bro. Need something?”

Bokuto glanced between them, unsure if he was sick to his stomach or scared of the unknown or if he should be excited—it could be a surprise they were planning. “Uhm. About the broth—”

“Are they still arguing about that?” Kuroo huffed. “I told Tora to use salt, garlic, shallots, chives, and thyme. No ginger, I don't care how much he likes it.”

Nodding, Bokuto stepped back to return to the kitchen, but saw them exchange a hurried, relieved glance. He shuffled from foot to foot, sucking his top lip between his teeth and pressing his fingers to the scar on his hand. “Everything ok?”

“Oh yeah,” Akaashi assured him, too quickly, too bright.

Kuroo said, “Just go back to work.”

But Bokuto _knew_ they were hiding something from him. Did he stay and try to find out? What if it was bad? What if—

And then Oikawa came in the front door, locking it behind him and shaking his head. “I hate parking here—god. Did you see that weird ‘artisan’ pickle food truck outside?” Then he turned and saw Bokuto and he faltered, almost tripping over his feet in surprise.

Bokuto shouted, “The _what_!?”

Kuroo and Akaashi groaned in unison. Akaashi said, begging, “Bokuto, _please_.”

But Bokuto was already heading towards the door. “You traitors! You tried to hide it from me!” And then, because Oikawa tried to block his way: “Move, move, _move_!” He yanked on the door, huffed and had to unlock it, then threw himself outside. Months ago, when Kuroo had brought the pickle ice cream to the restaurant for him, he’d lost his _shit_ over it. He loved pickles more than any other food. The sheer variety of flavor one could impart on the humble cucumber blew his mind, and elevated it high on a pedestal in his mind. It had been a fiasco, the day of the pickle ice cream, and Bokuto had demanded that everyone taste it, then, when Kuroo refused on point of principal, had chased him around the kitchen until he’d pinned him to the floor and _forced_ him to try it.

Pickles have not been allowed in _je sais pas_ since.

Akaashi and Kuroo followed him to the door and Akaashi said, “Please don't go crazy, Bo!”

And Kuroo ordered, “You get your ass back here!”

But Bokuto ignored them both and practically ran down the street to the Pickle Me Pete food truck. His eyes widened with excitement and awe as he looked over the menu and all the different flavors of pickles. He dug out his wallet to see how much cash he had. It wasn't _nearly_ enough. “Do you take debit cards?”

 

* * *

 

“Come on!” Bokuto said. “Let me in!”

Kuroo glared at him from the other side of the locked door. “No!” he shouted through the glass. “Not with all that shit.”

Bokuto pouted at him then gazed imploringly over at Akaashi, who was standing behind him looking distressed. “Keiji, let me in?”

Akaashi made a face that said just how _done_ he was with Bokuto and his pickles. “How much did you buy?”

Bokuto glanced down at the bags in his hands, wondering if he should fib a bit. “Not as much as it looks like,” he said. “C’mon, Kuroo!”

Kuroo glared at him for a long moment, but finally opened the door to allow him inside. “Those go in your _locker_ ,” he told him. “Now.”

“But I haven’t even gotten to try them yet!” Bokuto said, pushing past him and heading to the kitchen. Kuroo and Akaashi followed him while making various noises of protest.

They caught the last remnants of the broth argument as Fukunaga said, “They _need_ salt to bring out the flavor.”

“They’re from the _ocean!_ They’re inherently salty!”

“That’s so wrong I can’t even—” Then they both stopped as Bokuto, Kuroo, Akaashi, Oikawa, and several wait-staff that had been watching the drama unfold filed into the kitchen.

He set his bags on the counter and dug through the contents ( _several_ quart containers of various pickle flavors) until he found the house made selection and peeled open the lid. The smell was _something_. They smelled of home. Of his grandmother’s pickles. Of his sister’s. Of _his_. It reminded him of long, boiling summers harvesting cucumbers from his backyard garden and spending hours in the canning shed—packed dirt floor, wooden walls letting in broken shafts of light, pollen and dust motes floating on the air. A tiny hot-plate. A barely working mini-fridge. Dried spices hanging from the rafters, and the hum and rumble of the canning machine—making various pickling liquids. He’d had to commandeer a whole shelf of the family refrigerator for his mason jars and would watch them like a hawk for a week until they were ready, then have to hide them from the rest of his voracious family or else he’d never get to try any of his own creation. Everyone agreed that he was the best pickle maker of the family—even his grandfather, who had been wooed sixty five years ago by his grandmother at the county fair with _her_ homemade pickles.

The vinegar scent from them tickled the back of his nose and he took a moment to pop one in his mouth— _explosion_ of flavor. He thought, _this is what Kuroo meant_ —before replacing the lid and looking over the other flavors with interest. “Tora! C’mere!”

Kuroo was behind him, glaring over his shoulder. “Do not eat that,” he ordered as he saw Bokuto pick up the _Wasabi Sour_. “Bo, _don’t_. It’ll ruin your palate for prep.”

Bokuto grinned at him over his shoulder, but held the jar out to Tora as he inched closer. “Try it.”

Tora stood in front of them, glancing between them and the proffered pickle slice. Kuroo’s eyes said: _I’m your boss, don't you dare._ Bokuto’s said: _I’m_ also _your boss, try it try it try it!_

And Tora, much like Bokuto, had a certain predilection against being told _no._ Which was to do exactly what he was told not to do. So he plucked it from Bokuto’s fingers and ate it while staring Kuroo straight in the face.

Kuroo rolled his eyes, scoffing as if this was some planned _coup d’état_ and they were all against him. “Put that shit away,” he snapped.

Bokuto looked over his shoulder at Akaashi. “I thought you liked pickles.”

“I used to,” Akaashi admitted, “but then you took me of a _pickle tour_ of the city and it lasted _nine hours_. I'm all pickled out, Kou.”

“Impossible!”

Akaashi shook his head and waved his hands in the air as if washing his hands of all of them and left, vanishing back into the dining room.

Bokuto gathered up his containers and stacked them back into the bags. “You hurt my feelings, Kuroo.”

“You hurt my sensibilities.”

Bokuto stuck his tongue out at him and stomped back to the locker room with his prize. He was so excited, especially because the girl at the truck had told him that they’d be around for the week and that they changed a few of their specials every day so _tomorrow_ he could get a whole new variety. And the next day. And the next day. And the next day…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record- Akaashi made Kenma a French Blonde, Kuroo a Rob Roy, and Bokuto a Black Russian.


	39. confit

The restaurant was having a _night_. Something had gone wrong with the reservations—no one could figure out how or what, Lyanna was a mess over it, though—so they were overbooked and all the tickets were coming in at the same time. The servers couldn’t stagger them so much or else customers would just be sitting waiting, and Oikawa wouldn’t have that.

So _dans la merde_ was an understatement. The heat from the equipment made the air shimmer and wave so that several times Bokuto thought he was going crazy seeing images floating in the air. If he wasn’t worried about sanitation he’d have taken off his jacket long ago, he’d already sweated through two of them and had to change into extras from his locker. Twice he’d kicked over the bucket of ice at his feet and had to have one of the bussers re-fill it. The cooks were sharing it, sliding it across the floor to each other whenever one of them felt dizzy and scooping ice into their hair or down their backs. Bokuto, standing over the grill, felt the heat as a physical beast, clawing at his throat and trying to rip his mind from him.

And Kuroo…

Well.

Bokuto been keeping an eye on him for the last few days, and he _knew_ that Kuroo was getting to the point where he needed someone to tell him to take care of himself. Bokuto had made him go home every evening, but Kuroo was always there when Bokuto arrived for work in the morning, and Bokuto was suspicious that Kuroo had only pretended to go home but had doubled back to come to the restaurant. He couldn’t be sure, but he did know that Kuroo looked like he needed a shower, a good meal, and about three days of sleep. Possibly he needed to get laid, but Bokuto couldn’t help with that particular need.

Kuroo was in some sort of state—half auto-pilot, half tumultuous storm—and he had the kitchen attempting to work at double their usual pace, but he refused to allow quality to slip. This was resulting in infinitely rising stress levels from everyone in the kitchen. Kuroo would demand something and, when it was delivered, scream at the person that it wasn’t _perfect_ and to do it again. Normally, Bokuto would tell him _exactly_ what he thought of this treatment, but he was too goddamn _busy_ to deal with Kuroo right now.

“Bo,” Kuroo called, then rattled off something in French so fast Bokuto couldn’t even pretend to make out what he said.

“What?” Bokuto asked, not even turning to look at him.

“The fucking _lamb_!”

Bokuto took a moment, clenching his jaw and trying not to come back with some smart-ass comment because they didn’t need that right now. Too busy for jokes. “It’s here,” he said, then raised his voice, “Inu—lamb—window.”

Inuoka glanced up, his face pale, and called back, “I need a minute.”

Kuroo snatched the lamb from Bokuto’s hand. “Now!”

Glancing hurriedly over his station, Inuoka looked like he was lost. He reached for a pan to stir something, but Bokuto could see even from across the kitchen that he was quickly slipping into a cavern of confusion. Bokuto swore and moved over to him even as Kuroo shouted, “Where are you going?!”

Bokuto ignored him, taking stock of Inuoka’s station with a quick once-over. “Careful,” he told him, forcing his voice to calmness, “if you leave the handle like that you’ll burn the shit out of your hand.” He knocked the silver handle from over the flame with the calloused side of his knuckles. He rattled off instructions to him as he snatched up the sides he needed and waited until Inuoka nodded. Then, leaning close to his face so he didn’t have to shout, he said, “Hey, you gon’ make it?”

Inuoka’s widened eyes weren’t uncertain, and he opened his mouth to speak but then his eyes flicked over Bokuto’s shoulder and he inched backward. Before Bokuto could turn someone snagged a fistful of his collar and whipped him around.

Kuroo screamed at him, “What the _fuck_ are you doing!” and slapped the pan out of his hands. Purée splattered across the floor and onto Bokuto’s pants—sticking to his ankles and burning hot. He didn’t move though, and glared at Kuroo, who was red in the face. “You abandoned your station! The filet is burning! Are you—” his voice lowered to dangerous levels, his fist tightening in Bokuto’s jacket as he tugged him closer, their faces inches apart. “Are you trying to _sabotage_ me?”

Bokuto remembered their last fight. He knew exactly how hard his friend could punch, and he knew that he could probably win that fight, if it came to it. Instinctively, his fists clenched. The complete curling of his ring finger caused pain to zip up the inside of his left arm, leftover destruction from the knife wound in his hand. He ground his teeth so hard it hurt, and even as the world seemed to focus in on Kuroo’s furious eyes, hard as steel, he saw everyone else in the kitchen:

Inuoka stepping hastily backwards, fear in his face; Tora moving closer, ready to grab one or both of his bosses to try and talk sense into them; Fukunaga, quietly tightening his grip on an empty pan, as if readying to throw it; and Yaku hurrying towards them from his dessert counter. The bussers and _commis_ chefs all shifting nervously. No one knew exactly what to do or what was about to happen.

It could be disastrous. It could be the end of them if Bokuto and Kuroo had a falling out. At least tonight, they would sink. Bokuto didn’t want that. He knew that Kuroo wasn’t thinking straight. So he reached up and curled his fingers around Kuroo’s wrist, his grip matching the intensity of Kuroo’s eyes. When he spoke, it was as soft as he could make it, “Let go of me.”

Kuroo didn’t, and in fact his fingers tightened.

“Kuroo,” Bokuto said again, “let go. I’m not trying to sabotage you. I’m with you. Okay? I’m _with_ you.”

The world was frozen for a long moment. Bokuto could feel Kuroo’s pulse in his wrist. His own ears rang with adrenaline that told him _attack attack attack._

Then Kuroo blinked, recognition flooding his eyes. His fingers loosened and he leaned away, mouth agape with shock. “I… Bo…”

Bokuto put his hands on his shoulders and turned him. “Come on,” he said, pushing him towards his office. Over his shoulder he made a twirling motion with his fingers, snapping his fingers at Yuuki and pointing to the line. He and Yaku exchanged a knowing look and Yaku moved to the hot plate to try and right the ship. Or at least prevent a full blown disaster.

He took Kuroo to his office and parked him on the couch in there and crouched in front of him to examine him. Kuroo’s eyes were flat and far away, and his hands, which had been steady as long as Bokuto had known him, were trembling. Something had snapped and Bokuto didn’t know what. Probably overworking himself, and his body had finally given up. Carefully, so he didn’t pull any of his hair out, he pulled the bandana from his hair, and helped him out of his sticky chef coat. He dropped a clean towel over his head and sat beside him, laying a hand on his shoulder as he pulled out his phone.

For several seconds the line rang and Bokuto wondered if it would go through to voicemail. Then the man on the other side said, “Hello?”

“It’s me,” Bokuto said into the phone.

Kuroo rubbed his face with his hands and groaned.

“Is he okay?”

Honestly, Bokuto said, “I don’t know.”

“Let me talk to him.”

Bokuto handed the phone over and, after a moment of insistence from him when Kuroo tried to wave it away Kuroo put it to his ear and listened for a moment. Then he sighed, slumping back into the couch. “Kei…”

Bokuto stood and stepped out of the office as Kuroo whispered, “I don’t know…”

He went back to the line and everyone looked at him, worry and fear on their faces. He held his hands up and motioned them down. “It’ll be okay,” he told them. “Look, we can fix this. You all know how hard Chef works, he’s here more than anybody. Give him some time, he’ll be okay. But we can’t disappoint him, can we?”

The others nodded back at him. Tora was trying to work the grill and his station and help Yaku plate, while Fukunaga struggled with helping Tora’s station, which was right beside the fish station, and Inuoka and Yuuki were just trying to keep up.

Yaku flipped through several tickets. “We managed to get these finished. But we’re still really far behind.”

“Goddammit,” he muttered, seeing all the tickets lined up. Tonight was going to only get longer and harder.

Yaku raised an eyebrow at him. “What should we do?” While they still had arguments sometimes, the two of them knew that the service and the restaurant came before any personal problems and could work together well when they needed to. No matter how much he teased him Bokuto respected the hell out of Yaku; and, as Kuroo had told him once, Yaku felt the same way about Bokuto—excluding when he tried to steal his pastries. The apple tart had impressed him and from then on Yaku had told Kuroo several times that he liked the things that Bokuto did in the kitchen.

They stood together for a moment, looking over the kitchen. Bokuto took a deep breath and rested his hands on his hips. “We’re gonna do what we always do,” he said. “We’re gonna kick ass.”

 

* * *

 

Tsukishima pushed his way into the kitchen just as things were beginning to settle. Bokuto saw him and waved him over as he said something to the small pastry chef, then extracted himself from the line. “How is he?” Tsukishima asked, turning to look over his shoulder into the office.

Bokuto shrugged, wiping his hands on a towel and eyeing the sleeping figure on the couch. “I don’t know, dude. He’s worn slap out. He almost hit me,” he shook his head, “but I managed to get him to rest.”

“Thank you,” Tsukishima said.

“Has he not been sleeping?”

Tsukishima shrugged miserably, guilt burning his chest hot. “I don’t know. I’ve been in Chicago visiting a friend for a week. I just got back this morning… by the time I made it to the apartment he was already at work.” He paused, sighing, and cursing himself. “I hope he’s been feeding the cats, at least.”

Bokuto gave him a wry smile. “I tried to get him home. I really did.”

“Thanks… I know he’s difficult.”

Bokuto snickered, shrugging helplessly. “What can you do—we love him. Just take care of him.” He gave Tsukishima a mocking little salute before turning and giving orders to his chefs as they began breaking down the kitchen for cleaning.

Tsukishima moved to the office and found Kuroo curled up on the couch, but Tsukishima didn’t know if he was asleep or not. He reached down and tentatively touched Kuroo’s shoulder. “You awake?”

Kuroo made a soft sound of affirmation, but if he was awake it was only barely. Tsukishima sighed and tugged on his arm to get him to stand.

“Come on,” he said, “let’s get you home. You need to sleep.”

Kuroo raised his head at that, glancing up through the windows. “No,” he muttered, sounding brittle, as if he would fall apart any moment. “No, I have to help them—”

“I don’t think so,” Tsukishima told him. “Bokuto has it in hand.” Tsukishima helped Kuroo into his jacket and walked him out of the restaurant. He wondered what it said about Kuroo’s exhaustion levels that he didn’t even try to protest.

In the cab Kuroo tucked the sleeve of his jacket up as a pillow and laid his head on it. He clutched at Tsukishima’s hand as he closed his eyes. “How was your trip?”

Tsukishima stroked his knuckles gently. “It was fine.”

“Tell me about it,” Kuroo said, sleepily.

“Ah… well, Tadashi’s wife picked me up—do you remember her? You met her at that dinner. Hitoka is her name.” Kuroo made a little sound that said he remembered. “So she picked me up from the airport and… well, that was an experience. She’s very sweet, but she’s very nervous. And she hasn’t driven much in the city… plus there was construction and pretty bad traffic.”

Kuroo chuckled. “You would have done better to drive.”

“Oh, absolutely. But she was insistent.” He chuckled, shaking his head at the memory of the poor girl shaking behind the wheel while saying _I’m fine this is fine all’s good we’ll be home soon_ under her breath.

“Why’d they move there anyway?”

“She’s a teacher,” Tsukishima said. “She got a job at a special needs school for little kids, and since Tadashi is a software engineer, he can do his job pretty much anywhere. He found a company to work for before they moved, anyway. I helped them paint some rooms in their new house, and we went to dinner once, but mostly she cooked for us.”

Kuroo’s smile barely touched his lips, he was too tired to even do that. “Mhm?

“She’s actually a very good cook. She could stand to season things a bit more but she’ll get better.”

“You’re just…” Kuroo mumbled, head lolling on his chest, “used to my cooking.”

Tsukishima smiled and patted his hand even as he dozed off. He let Kuroo sleep until the got to their building, then woke him just enough to get up upstairs. When Tsukishima finally got Kuroo to his bedroom he was nearly limp, and it took all of Tsukishima’s dexterity and determination to get him out of his dirty clothes before he collapsed in bed.

He sat beside him, tracing the lines of the blades on his back as Kuroo buried himself in the pillows. He heaved a deep sigh, relaxing, then turned on his side as Madame leapt up on the bed and nuzzled under his chest. Monsieur meowed loudly on the floor and made to dig his claws into Tsukishima’s good suit pants, so he kicked him away. “Stop that, you little bastard.”

The cat blinked at him, then moved around the side of the bed and hopped up on the bed too. He gave Tsukishima a haughty look as he curled up on Kuroo’s other side, and Kuroo raised a hand to curl it over his head and scratch his ear.

“Tetsu, what were you thinking?” Tsukishima asked softly, laying a palm on his belly, stroking gently with his fingers. Kuroo smiled sleepily and stretched his back, just like the cats that purred around him. “Did you even come home at all?”

“I fed the cats,” Kuroo mumbled.

“Did you sleep at all? Or eat? Take care of yourself?”

“Of course.”

Tsukishima didn’t believe him, and sighed. “Go to sleep.” He leaned over and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Kuroo was already lost to his dreams so Tsukishima tucked him under blankets and changed into his pajamas as quietly as possible, watching with disdain as Monsieur attacked his socks when he took them off. When he slipped into bed, Madame stared at him from Kuroo’s side, her wide eyes telling him _not tonight_ so he couldn’t even snuggle in close to Kuroo. He didn’t want to disturb Kuroo by tossing her off the bed… but he certainly considered it, even as he lay on the edge of the bed and fell into his own dreams.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, Tsukishima made coffee. Usually the scent of dark roast wafting through the apartment would call Kuroo from the depths of sleep and draw him into the kitchen like one of those old-time cartoons where the character seems physically hooked by a visible trail of scent.

After he’d had his coffee and Kuroo hadn’t emerged from the bedroom, he made a simple breakfast of eggs and toast (Kuroo was the one that liked to fight with crêpes and too-complicated French toast before the sun was truly awake) and went down the hall to unpack and send his laundry down. He fed the cats back in Kuroo’s apartment while considering that they _really_ should just move in together. Only Madame ( _Cera,_ he told himself, even as he forgot to call her that in his head. _Her name is Cera. Cera. Cera. Cera. Cera._ ) showed up for her meal so he tip-toed around the apartment looking for Monsieur, checking all the usual spots: either of the laundry hampers, the lowest shelf in the pantry next to the rice and flour bags where he liked to hide and bat at their feet as they passed by, the chair by the window that was always bathed in sunlight, the fridge (after one stressful evening where they thought he’d been lost or gotten out… while Madame sat beside the fridge, tail flicking and a mischievous tilt to her head. They figured she’d locked him in there), and was going into the bedroom to look in the sock drawer when he found him.

Kuroo was sprawled out on his stomach, still snoring, and Monsieur had taken the opportunity to lay lengthwise on Kuroo’s spine, asleep with his belly to the world and his paws reaching up over his head. It looked like the knives on Kuroo’s back were holding the cat in place, but neither of them seemed to mind. Tsukishima took a moment to snap a picture, then shook his head with a smile and left them there to sleep. Kuroo had been asleep for almost eight hours but he thought more couldn’t hurt. It was Sunday, and Kuroo liked to go in early to do weekly paperwork… but Tsukishima thought he needed sleep more.

So he scribbled a note to Kuroo which he left on the counter explaining that he’d gone to the office for a meeting and would be back with lunch and for Kuroo to call him when he woke up. He checked on the once more before leaving and discovered that Madame had curled herself around Kuroo’s head, and all three were sound asleep. “Lazies,” he told the two cats.

The meeting was one in which he was trying to convince his boss to issue him a new work laptop—the one he had was almost ten years old and barely worked. The man refused, as he thought he would, so Tsukishima simply gave it back and said his next few articles would be late, since he had to shop around for a new one. Taking his time going home, he browsed through several of the big electronic stores, looking at the different laptops. Always the big questions: Windows or Mac? Portability or power? These days, it didn’t always make a difference, but he was very finicky when it came to big purchases. Which was probably one reason he’d never bought the pen that he wanted, and Kuroo had bought it _for him_ since he was less inclined towards hesitancy. He jotted down a list of the computers he liked, some specs, and thought he’d make a list for each over why he liked it or not, and was struggling through the conundrum of how he would organize it properly without a laptop when his phone rang.

He thought it would have been Kuroo but, no, it was Bokuto. He’d given Bokuto his number at the Christmas party and told him it was for emergencies. Bokuto had taken that to heart, never calling him until it _was_ an emergency. So why now? “Yes?”

“Hey, dude,” Bokuto said, sounding like he was walking fast or doing several things at once. “How’s the boss?”

“Still sleeping, I assume. I had a meeting, but I’m going home soon.”

“Oh good,” Bokuto said, taking a bite of something, then: “Hey, one sec—” His voice was muffled as he said something to someone else, sounding like he was scolding them. In a moment he was back, “Sorry. Models, y’know? Can’t cook for shit. I should just portion out salt for eggs, maybe they’d learn that way. Jesus.” Tsukishima _didn’t_ know about models or their cooking habits, but he didn’t interrupt and waited while it sounded like Bokuto was chugging a gallon of water. “Anyway, tell him to take a personal day. I can handle it.”

Tsukishima paused, considering this. “He won’t like that.”

“I know,” Bokuto said, chewing on something else again. It made Tsukishima cringe. “But I’m serious. I checked his notes on his computer, like time cards when documents were edited and shit, and from what I can tell he’s spent nearly every waking minute at the restaurant this week. And so”—another bite, his mouth full. Tsukishima wanted to hang up or wash his ear with something or go listen to an opera to get the sound out of his head—“I’m telling you to tell him: stay away. Sleep for once in his goddamn life. If he comes I’ll kick him out. That’s my job—keep people in line. Make sure they get home. Blah-blah. Sunday’s are slow dinner days. Slow-ish, anyway. We’ll be _fine_. He’s trained us well. ’s all good.”

“I’ll tell him,” Tsukishima said curtly, wanting to be off the phone. “Thank you.”

Sometimes Tsukishima forgot that Bokuto was from way down South, until he wasn’t paying attention to clipping his accent. “A’ight, see ya. Give the kitties a squeeze for me.” He hung up without waiting for a response and Tsukishima was ever so grateful for the reprieve.

At home, he checked on Kuroo again—still dead to the world. He ushered the cats out and closed the door so they wouldn’t wake him. He glanced at his watch—almost noon. He spent the day playing with Monsieur to get the wildness out of him, then he made his lists for the new laptop and narrowed down the choice to two, watched several shows he’d missed while he was gone (and, really, if two men were sharing a DVR, a bed, and two cats they _really_ should be living together, he thought), and even worked on the novel he was writing about the adventures of two magical cats and their oblivious owner.

And finally, as the sun was setting, he heard movement and Kuroo shuffled out of the bedroom. He came and sank onto the couch beside Tsukishima, waited for Tsukishima to move his notebook, then lay across his lap and hugged his arms around Tsukishima’s hips. Kuroo buried his nose in his leg and let out a long breath. “Is it morning?”

Tsukishima chuckled. “God, no. It’s dinner.”

Kuroo moaned a little. “No wonder I’m starving.”

“Do you want me to make you dinner?”

“Mhm…” Kuroo nuzzled down into his lap. “What would you make?”

“Fettuccine alfredo.” He reached over and traced one of the knives on Kuroo’s back, close to his rib cage. It always made Kuroo shiver and goose-flesh rise on his arms, but he didn’t _not_ like it so Tsukishima ran his finger over the blade of it again and again, grinning as the muscles in his back twitched until he relaxed and turned his head to the side to look up Tsukishima.

He said, “Is it good?”

“I think so.” Tsukishima set aside his notebook so he could stroke his fingers through Kuroo’s hair. “It has cream cheese in the sauce.”

Kuroo grimaced, squinting up at him. ‘That’s disgusting.”

“It is not!”

“Sacrilege to Italy.”

Tsukishima patted his back, and shifted so that Kuroo groaned and sat up, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Good thing you’re not Italian, then. Now you go take a shower.”

“I want to watch you cook!” Kuroo complained.

“No,” Tsukishima told him, turning him and pushing him towards the bathroom, “because you always criticize me.”

“I do not.”

Tsukishima mocked him, “ _Kei, don’t overcook the chicken. Kei, don’t cut onions like that. Kei, your pan’s too hot.”_

Kuroo grumbled, “Well it _was_.”

“Go shower! You smell.”

Tsukishima waited until Kuroo vanished down the hallway before he went to gather his ingredients. Kuroo _had_ eaten his alfredo before, even if he’d forgotten, and he’d liked it when he hadn’t known what was in it. Tsukishima had been fussed at before for forgetting his _mise en place_ and realizing halfway through cooking he didn’t have an ingredient he needed so he spent ten minutes rooting around in the kitchen until he found everything his makeshift recipe called for. He heard Kuroo talking and raised his voice, “What’d you say?”

But when Kuroo appeared he pointed to his phone as he talked into it. “No, no,” he was saying, “I definitely needed it. I’m sorry I missed—” He waited while the person on the other end said something to him. “Alright, okay, calm down, Bo. Don’t have to yell at me. So everything’s okay? … Good. Good. What did you decide for the specials?”

Tsukishima snapped his fingers to get Kuroo to look at him, then pointed to the bathroom. Kuroo held up his finger in a _one minute_ signal.

“Mhm-hmm. Yeah. Did you try a bit of lemon? No, no, I’m not questioning—Bo, shut the fuck up for a second. We use the berry sauce on the duck so I just don’t want to repeat too much.” He made a face and pressed his fingers to his eyes. “Yeah… yeah, I know. I know you know. I’m not doubting— _of course I know that_. Fine. Fine, I’ll do— Yes. _Okay_. Just leave the paperwork—Bokuto, I swear to God if you interrupt me one more time. Just put the tickets on my desk and I’ll add them all in on Tuesday. Yeah, that’d be good.” He waited, pacing up and down the hallway. “Thank you. Yes, I think I’ll do that. I won’t squeeze the cats, they’ll scratch me. Okay, cool. Have a good service, alright? And Bo? Thank you. I appreciate it more than you know.” He hung up and wandered into the kitchen, poking Monsieur with his toe when he got to the counter.

“Everything okay?” Tsukishima asked as he whisked heavy cream and butter and cream cheese in a pot while water boiled beside him.

“Yeah,” Kuroo said, leaning on the counter to peer into the pot.

“Don’t you say a damn thing.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“So what did Bokuto want?”

“Just telling me the day’s specials they made. It’s fish—halibut.” He reached over and dipped a spoon in the pasta water and Tsukishima glared at him as he dropped more salt into it.

“I did that already.”

“Not enough. Salty like the ocean, baby,” Kuroo said, grinning.

Tsukishima rolled his eyes. “Go—take—a—shower.”

“F—i—n—e,” Kuroo said back, mocking his slow, deliberate tone. He flicked his hands and sauntered away towards the bathroom.

“And use _lots of soap_!”

As he walked Kuroo dropped his pants around his ankles and shuffled naked to the bathroom while Tsukishima laughed over his simmering cream sauce.

Later, after they ate Kuroo said, “Well, I’ll be damned, this is delicious.”

“Told you.”

And then Kuroo said he was tired, and went back to bed, and slept till noon the next day.


	40. poaching

On Tuesday when Kuroo made it back to the restaurant he spent several hours going over paperwork from the weekend. Saturday’s tickets were a _mess_ but he thought they still did well enough near the end, and Sunday was slow, even for a Sunday. They’d lost more inventory and had more plates sent back on Saturday than they’d ever had in a single night, and that _bothered_ him. He’d have to work with Yuuki and Bokuto to figure out what they needed to replace in the inventory next weekHe spent an hour doing payroll for last week, and discovered something that made him smile and knock his fist into the edge of the table in celebration.

When Bokuto came in for the day he stomped into the office. “How long have you been here!?”

Kuroo didn't look up from his paperwork. “Two, three hours?”

“The fuck?”

“Don’t start with me,” Kuroo snapped. He stacked papers around and slid the finished receipts into a drawer for safe keeping.

Bokuto folded his arms, looking menacing as he glowered down at Kuroo. “If you think I’ll let you just come in here and do that shit all over—”

“I’m sorry,” Kuroo said, closing the drawer and looking up at him. “Really. You… you know how I get. Kei was gone to visit his friends… and with the new menu and all the stress of trying to make it perfect…” He sighed, rubbing a knuckle over his forehead. “You know.”

Bokuto frowned, shaking his head. “Bro, we almost came to blows. Poor little Inuoka was scared out of his mind.”

Kuroo groaned a little. “I’ll apologize to him, too. I was probably dehydrated. I don’t know.”

“…Fine. But if it happens again I—” He stopped, making a disgruntled face. “Look, just don’t let it happen again, okay?”

“I promise.”

“Good. That’s that, then. Now, I think we’re getting a veggie shipment in soon so I’ll work on rotating the walk-in.”

“I’ll help,” Kuroo said, standing. “Oh, hey, guess what?”

Bokuto was pulling his hoodie off to trade it for his chef coat. The tattoo on his arm was vibrant as brand new life under the black tank top he wore. “It’s not even ten, it’s too early for guessing. Tell me.”

Kuroo followed him into the locker room for his own coat. His eyes kept sliding back to the tattoo and he smiled each time he saw a new flower or another bright green scale. “I just finished payroll and next week you’ll get a _full_ paycheck.”

Bokuto paused in shoving his duffle bag in his locker, blinking as the words went through to his brain. Then he smiled, turning to beam at Kuroo. “Really?!”

“Yup,” Kuroo smiled back, “debt’s all paid. For me, at least. I don’t know about the rest of your financials.”

“Shit yea!” Bokuto shouted, turning and holding his hand up for a high five that _hurt_ Kuroo’s hand. “Oh, _dude_ , I can start saving up money again. Thank god, I was nearly out.”

Kuroo rolled his eyes, waving his hand to cool his stinging palm. “I could have held off, or taken less.”

“No, no,” Bokuto said, shrugging into his coat. “I’m glad it’s all done. Don’t have to worry anymore.”

“Good,” Kuroo said, hardening his voice. “If you do stupid shit again I’ll leave you in jail to rot.”

Bokuto only grinned a mischievous, lopsided grin. “No you wouldn’t.”

Kuroo pulled his jacket from its hook. “Test me and find out,” he said and left the locker room as Bokuto cackled behind him.

 

* * *

 

Bokuto and Akaashi spent several weeks looking for a new apartment. Akaashi felt bad for making Bokuto leave the brownstone and the other models but Bokuto told him while peppering kisses across his cheeks, “You’re my home, little bird, not these walls.”

So they looked, and they toured, and they haggled with real estate agents, and after many many many _maybe’_ s they finally found an unfurnished apartment at Sutton Place. It was simple, and high enough up the building that they could see the East River from their living room. The kitchen was small but serviceable, had a real stove, a working fridge, and a sink—really, that’s all Bokuto needed. The counter even doubled as a window into the living room and he said they could have some of those edgy, modern parties where they passed plates of food through it.

There was no furniture so they spent mornings at thrift stores, flea malls, yard sales, and city auctions searching for vaguely matching furniture for the rest of their apartment. They found mismatching bar stools for their counter, several large hutches and dressers for the guest room (which Bokuto had told Akaashi he could have as a _closet_ since he had so many clothes), and an old, squishy leather couch that Akaashi insisted was reupholstered and thoroughly cleaned.

When Akaashi informed Mattsun and Makki that he’d be taking his flat screen TV from the living room they moaned and whined and bitched but Akaashi put his foot down saying, “I _bought_ the damn thing!”

Moving day was on a Monday, and involved renting a large van that Bokuto insisted he could drive. Bokuto called Hinata to help them with the promise of food as payment, and the chance to show off his new muscles and ability to lift things like the Hulk. So Bokuto and Hinata moved all the furniture, the models moved all the clothes, and Bokuto was fussed at more than once for being indelicate with large bags of silk and satin. And after they’d moved everything and their new apartment was filled with boxes from floor to ceiling Bokuto excused himself to go downstairs and order food for them all—and stop the minor trembling in his fingers since he hadn’t had a cigarette all damn day.

But as he was finishing the phone call and sighing out a pleased, smoky breath Akaashi came out to check on him. “Mattsun wanted to make sure you ordered extra soy sauce since we haven’t filled our fridge yet.” He frowned at the cigarette, as he usually did.

“Of course I did,” Bokuto said. He would move away, but he was leaning against the wall at the end of the building, and had nowhere to go except into a dirty alley. “I know what he likes. I’ve been cooking for him for months.”

Akaashi nodded, folding his arms. “So, do you have a whole pack of those things?”

Bokuto frowned at him, pausing in his next inhale. “Why?”

Instead of answering, Akaashi reached out and _plucked_ the cigarette from his fingers. Bokuto loathed everything inside himself for thinking Akaashi looked hot as he touched the cigarette to his lips. He looked bored as he took a long, slow drag off of it, then pulled it down to frown at the burning tip as he exhaled through his nose.

“Uhm.” Bokuto squinted at him. “What the fuck?”

“I’m tired of being grossed out. I’ve heard that people who actually smoke don’t smell it… so if I start, maybe it won’t gross me out so much.”

Bokuto stared at him, dumbfounded. The idea of Akaashi ruining his body, of losing the sweet scent of mint and lemon from his skin, of having to _watch_ him actually smoke cigarettes made him suddenly _feel_ all the poison he’d pulled into his lungs over the years. “No,” he said firmly, snatching it back, burning his fingers a little in his hurry. “No, you can’t.”

Akaashi shrugged. “It smells bad. I either become scent blind by starting or—”

Interrupting him Bokuto said, “I’ll quit,” and dropped the cigarette onto the slushy, gritty sidewalk.

“You said that before.”

Bokuto snapped, “Yeah, well—” But he didn’t finish because he was angrily ripping up the box with the rest of his cigarettes and stomped them into the sidewalk. “Fuck!”

Akaashi blinked at him, hugging his arms around himself as a cold wind whipped up the edge of their coats. “Good, I don’t want that crap in our new place, too.”

Bokuto huffed, laying his hands on Akaashi’s shoulders and steering him back inside. “Don’t you ever do that again,” he told him, pushing him through the door as Akaashi laughed.

“Don’t make me, then.”

“Since when did you become so good at manipulating me?”

While they waited for the elevator Akaashi leaned his head on Bokuto’s shoulder and grinned up at him. “Since I’ve met you.”

 

* * *

 

Akaashi had lived in New York City for almost eight years, and sometimes he still couldn’t believe he lived here. He’d come to the city immediately after he graduated high school from a small, flat town in Colorado. For months the constant noise of the city had kept him awake at night until his brain learned to filter it all out. Even though he had no money, he liked to wander the streets and browse the huge amalgamation of shops.

No matter the street, one could always find something interesting to search through. It fascinated him that the shops and stores and buildings went _up_ instead of out. There was a multi-story Target that he had passed on his way to his first modeling job at eighteen, and on his way home would go in and explore each floor until the employees knew him by name. He’d never seen a multi-story department store before and they found that hilarious. He was used to it all now, but sometimes he would still stop and look _up up up_ at how tall the buildings were.

On Mondays Bokuto would go with him to the first of his weekly therapy appointments. Sometimes he was allowed in and they could talk together about the strides in treatment or their new apartment or anything the two of them felt like talking about with the therapist, but usually he would wait in the lobby chatting with the other patients that were waiting. Afterwards, they would wander down various streets (Bokuto called it, “piddlin’ around,” which Akaashi giggled every time he heard) and pick through he shops. They tried on vintage clothes at an antique store, got makeovers at Sephora (the girl that tried to put mascara on Bokuto panicking when he laughed and she accidentally stabbed him in the eye), spent all day at a toy store playing the new Smash Brothers on the test console, and sometimes they’d have to talk each other out of buying random gifts for the other at any of these stores when one of them showed the slightest interest in the smallest thing.

One of those Mondays they were sharing piroshki they’d brought from a food truck when something in the window of a store glittered in the sun and caught Akaashi’s eye. He stopped to look at the little items and, after a moment he realized that Bokuto was so engrossed in his food that he’d kept walking. “Bo!” he called, “Come back.”

Bokuto stopped in his tracks, looking over his shoulder as he walked backwards. “What’s up?” he asked after swallowing his bite.

Akaashi pointed to the window. “What do you think?”

Bokuto raised his eyebrows and a smile lit his features. “You know what I think.”

Akaashi considered this. He knew Bokuto wanted to—he did too. “Can we really afford it?”

Bokuto laughed. “Probably not,” but he said it in a way that meant it didn’t matter much.

Akaashi poked a longing finger against the glass. “Doesn’t that gold one look like you?”

“I dunno,” Bokuto said, peering in and taking another bite. “Let’s take a closer look, at least. Find out how much.” He finished his piroshki then Akaashi handed over his and Bokuto finished that one too since the sign said _No Food or Drinks._ They stepped inside the jewelry store and, after convincing the jeweler that yes, they were looking to buy, despite Bokuto’s tattered jeans and t-shirt and tattoos, picked out the rings they liked best.

As it turned out the shop allowed for payment plans, so Bokuto insisted that they get the ones that Akaashi liked the most. They spent fifteen minutes trying different sizes until they found the right ones. The shop had Akaashi’s fit in stock, but they were going to have to order Bokuto’s.

“I could just get another tattoo,” Bokuto said, running a finger around his ring finger.

Akaashi shook his head. “You just want another tattoo. Don’t you have enough?”

“I’ve still got skin, don’t I?”

The jeweler stared at them, looking annoyed. “Is there anything else I can help you with?” he asked in a crisp, disinterested tone.

Akaashi smiled at him, ignoring his attitude. “No, thank you. It’ll be in the mail in a few days?”

The man nodded. “Of course. You could have it tomorrow.” He handed Bokuto back his card and gathered up all of his papers and the receipts and proofs of purchase, passing Bokuto the copies.

“Thanks, dude,” Bokuto said, probably just because he liked the way it made the man’s eye twitch. He took the papers and stuck them in his pocket then slid his tattooed arm around Akaashi’s shoulder and steered him out. Akaashi carried the little box with his ring and smiled down at it, pleased. Bokuto hugged him close as they walked. “Technically,” he said, “I should hold onto that until we swap them.”

Akaashi pouted, but handed the box over. “Don’t you lose it.”

“I would _never_!” He slid it into his pocket and patted it, grinning at Akaashi. “Tomorrow, maybe?”

“Maybe.” Akaashi pulled out his phone, and thumbed through the screens as he pulled up the internet function. “We’ve got to fill out a form online, pay thirty five dollars, and go down there to sign it in person and”—he paused, looking up at Bokuto—“You weren’t married before?”

Bokuto made a disgruntled face, his mouth twisting. “No, thank god. We were engaged in Florida, remember, I told you a long time ago? Doesn’t matter—she broke it off when I told her I wanted to move back home with my family. She refused to consider it or even talk about it.”

Akaashi hummed a little, not liking the fact that he was jealous of a girl from years ago. “Well, good. It would be more complicated if you had. So we go up there, sign all the stuff, and then we have to wait twenty-four hours for a ceremony, if we do one.”

“If?”

Akaashi shrugged. “I don’t need pomp and dazzle to be married to you. I just need you.”

Bokuto smiled down at him, kissing his head. “We’ll see what happens. Maybe you’ll want to have a nice big party to celebrate once we’re officially _hitched_.”

“Maybe. Let’s go ahead and fill out what we can online. What’s our address, again?”

“Something, something, East 54th.”

Akaashi rolled his eyes. “Great, thank you. We’ll just do that bit when we get home.”

 

* * *

 

Bokuto and Akaashi got married on a Friday morning. It was a perfect late-spring day— bright blue sky, beautiful blossoming flowers in window boxes, and cute, fat little bees humming in the air.

Unfortunately, they spent four hours inside the Office of the City Clerk so they missed a lot of the cute, fat little bees. But at the end of it all they were down thirty five dollars, four hours, and walked out with a piece of paper declaring them married in the state of New York. Akaashi’s ring was gold with rings of black on the outside, and Bokuto’s was black with an inside coating of shining dark blue (“To match your eyes,” Bokuto had said; “You have an orbital problem,” Akaashi remarked.).

“I think I still want to get a tattoo of a ring,” Bokuto said thoughtfully as they took a cab back to their apartment.

“Why?” Akaashi asked, still reading over the paper. He liked the way their signatures looked side by side.

“Cause it’s safer,” Bokuto said. “Also, it’s pretty. Don’t want knife nicks, or blood, or oil or anything getting on it. I’ll wear it at home but… for work, I think it’s too dangerous.”

Akaashi nodded, looking over at him and grinning. “Makes sense, but I also think you just want another tattoo.”

“What about you?” Bokuto nudged him with his arm. “You’re not modeling anymore, you could get one, too.”

“Oh,” Akaashi shrugged. “I don’t know. Seems painful.”

“It isn’t that bad.”

“You have absolutely no sense of pain, therefore I do not believe you when you say something doesn’t hurt.”

Bokuto plucked the paper from his hands and slid it into a folder. “I’m offended.”

“Last week you needed stitches for that cut on your hand—I begged you to go.”

Bokuto looked at the new puffy pink scar on the side of his finger. “It was fine. It didn’t even bleed through the gauze.”

Akaashi shook his head, frowning. “Either way, no. I don’t think I want a needle shoving ink under my skin a thousand times. You’ve got plenty of tattoos for the both of us.”

Bokuto reached over and took his hand so their rings were pressed together, pushing into their fingers. They smiled at each other, and Akaashi was _stupidly_ happy in that moment.

“Oh no,” he said suddenly. “Makki’s going to be furious that we didn’t tell them.”

Bokuto leaned back in his seat. “Ah, shit.”

Akaashi took a picture of their hands and sent it to Mattsun and Makki. “We’ll probably have to go over there for dinner or something to make it up to them.”

“You mean I’ll have to make dinner for them to make it up to them.”

“Wow,” Akaashi laughed, “it’s like marriage makes you a mind reader.”

Bokuto smiled, leaning his head on Akaashi’s, squeezing their hands a little. “I like the sound of that. Marriage. Us. Being married.” He pulled away so that Akaashi looked up at him and kissed him softly, until Akaashi giggled against his mouth. “Stop giggling, _husband_ , and let me kiss you.”

Akaashi leaned away, though, biting his lip with a smile and then pushing Bokuto’s face away with his hand when he tried to kiss him again. “At least wait until we’re home.”

Bokuto huffed but resorted to just keeping his arm around him. They were silent for a few minutes while Akaashi sent a text to the other two models and his friends from the agency he still talked to. Then suddenly Bokuto’s face shifted and he said with fear in his voice, “Ah, shit.”

Akaashi looked over, raising an eyebrow, then eyes widening as he saw Bokuto’s ashen face. “What? Oh my god, are you ok?”

“My sister,” Bokuto whispered.

Akaashi didn’t understand.

“She’s…” Bokuto pulled away so he could put his face in both hands. “She’s going to _kill me_.”

“Why? Does she not—” Akaashi touched his arm, trying to pull his hand away to see his face. “Does she not know you like guys?”

“That’s not it.” Bokuto groaned, throwing himself back and sinking down in the seat, looking miserable. “I was best man in her wedding. I was _hers_. It wasn’t any of her girlfriends, it was _me_. She told me that whenever I got married she had to be my—what do they call married honor people?”

“Matrons,” Akaashi provided, beginning to be a little amused. Thank god it was nothing _serious_.

“Yeah. She told me she would be my … best… matron? I don’t _know_. But she wanted to stand up there with me and do all that shit. Oh, _fuck_ and I never told my mom either. God, she’s gonna be so mad I didn’t tell her.” He sank even further down as Akaashi laughed. “Stop it!” He moaned, shaking his head. “You don’t understand! The women in my family are, like, Amazonian in their anger. Ah, fuck, ah shit. Goddammit.”

Akaashi grinned down at him, scratching the hair at the back of his head to comfort him. “Well, technically, we never had a _ceremony_. So they wouldn’t have had anywhere to stand anyway.”

“My mom will want a picture.”

“We’ll take one at home. I can set my camera up and everything. Maybe we can put you in something nicer than your Queen shirt, though.”

He grimaced, mouth twisting. “I don’t even own a suit.”

“We’ll call them when we get home, Kou,” Akaashi said, laughing. “Promise them that we’ll come down in the summer to meet them.”

“My mom will want to throw us a shindig.”

“A what?”

“A party.”

“Oh… well, that’s fine. What’s your sister like?”

Bokuto thought a moment. “Like me with tits.”

Akaashi snorted a laugh. “No, really. What’s she like?”

“I guess—maybe she’s like a warrior princess. Spoiled as shit, but tough as nails. She’s really blunt, she won’t put up with any shit, she’s got a husband, and three kids, and those are the best behaved kids you’ve ever met, unless they’re just fuckin’ around and goofing off. Take those kids to the Walmart? Perfect. Let them out in the backyard? Hellions. My sister would absolutely _adore_ you, though. God, my mom would, too.”

Akaashi smiled at him. “I can’t wait to meet them. Let’s call them when we get home, ok? Tell them together.”

Bokuto took a deep breath and shook himself a little as he sat back up, as if to clear his head. “Right. Yeah. Let’s do that. We’ll clean up, take a picture. Call them and send it to them and tell them and that’ll be that.” He paused, glancing over at Akaashi with wide eyes. “Right?”

“Absolutely. Besides, your sister wouldn’t yell at you with me on the phone, would she?”

“Oh she fucking _absolutely_ will. You’re part of the family now, you’re a part of family drama.”

Akaashi giggled at the look of horror on Bokuto’s face. “That’s okay. It’ll be _fine_. We’re, what, a fourteen hour drive from them? That’s plenty of time to pack up and ship out if she threatens to come up. We’ll go on an impromptu honeymoon.”

“I like that idea.”

“We’ll go to Disneyland or something.”

Bokuto laughed. “Done!”

 

* * *

 

They had to work that night, and while Akaashi was on time for his bar shift, Bokuto was three hours late. He’d texted Kuroo of course, saying that he’d be late.

Kuroo had told him to get his ass into work…

So when they walked in Kuroo looked furious and followed Bokuto back to the locker room, glaring at Akaashi as he moved towards the dining room. “What the fuck, Bo?”

“I told you I’d be late.”

Kuroo threw his arms in the air. “What the _fuck_?! I told you—”

Bokuto thrust his left hand into Kuroo’s face. “I was a little busy.”

Kuroo slapped his hand down, huffing. “I don’t care what you were doi—Wait, what is that?” He snatched Bokuto’s hand back and held it up, flipping it over as if the black and blue ring would look different from another angle.

“I got married, bro,” Bokuto said, beaming.

Kuroo looked at the ring for a long moment, then laughed softly. “Dude, why didn’t you tell me? I’d have let you _off work_ for your damn wedding day.”

Bokuto shrugged. “It was spur of the moment. Plus, it’s Friday. You need me.”

“Still—damn. You’re not going on a honeymoon or anything?”

“We don’t have the money!” Bokuto laughed, shrugging into his coat. “That’s why we’re here.”

“I can’t believe... “ Kuroo frowned at him, shaking his head. “You didn’t think to _call me_ beforehand? You didn’t think I’d want to _be there?_ ”

Bokuto blinked, then smiled. “You’d want to come to my wedding?”

“Of course I would!” He smacked Bokuto’s arm. “You’re one of my best friends. I’d have liked to _be there_ for one of the big life events.”

“If we ever renew our vows then you’ll absolutely be invited.”

Kuroo laughed, stepping back. “Done deal. Now, hurry up. We got a lot of stuff to do.” He stopped at the door, looking back. “So who’s paperwork do I need to update?”

“Both,” Bokuto said. “We’ve moved to a new apartment.”

“Well, just get with me sometime before next tax season and we’ll fix it,” Kuroo said. “Come on, now, Yuuki’s trying to do extra prep and he’s freaking out.”

“I’m comin’, I’m comin’.”

 

* * *

 

After service that night they were sitting in their apartment watching a late night marathon of Jeopardy while they wound down from the chaos of service. Akaashi was eating broccoli like potato chips with one hand while Bokuto played with the ring on his left.

“What is Lake Superior?” Akaashi said to the television, glancing over at Bokuto playing with his ring. “They’re pretty,” he said for maybe the sixth or seventh time that day. Akaashi had held onto Bokuto’s ring during prep and service, constantly touching his pocket to make sure it was still there. It had scared him senseless that he might lose it, and he told Bokuto that they would either have to get a chain to put it on or Bokuto would simply have to leave it at home when he went to work, especially once he had the tattoo of the ring.

Bokuto raised his eyes, smiling. “You picked good. You’ve always got good taste.”

Akaashi turned his head a bit so the sapphires glinted in his ears. “You do, too.”

“I married you, after all.”

Akaashi laughed, pushing their fingers together so the rings touched, pressing into their fingers. Their skin was still unused to the pressure of them as they held hands, but Akaashi only squeezed tighter at the sensation: unfamiliar and immediately loved. “Are you tired?”

Bokuto shook his head. “I probably should be but we had a crazy service tonight. If you want to go to bed, though, that’s fine. It’s almost two.”

“No, no,” Akaashi said, then in a more serious tone: “It’s our wedding night.”

Bokuto nodded. “Astute observation.”

“You picked up a dictionary.” Akaashi laughed softly, turning the volume on the television down.

“Only after Kuroo used it in service and I was too embarrassed to ask what it meant.”

Akaashi laughed. “Good for you. But, my point was, do you want to have sex?”

Bokuto’s brain short circuited for a moment. He _always_ wanted to have sex. “Uhm.”

Akaashi sat up a bit straighter, pulling his hand closer and squeezing it. “I know it’s been a … challenge, being with me.”

Bokuto stammered, “I—I’ve never expected—”

“I know,” Akaashi said, interrupting him, “and I’m eternally grateful for that. But, you know, I used to really like sex before all the … stuff that happened.” He glanced away, shrugging a bit. “But I’ve been talking to my therapist about all of it basically since day one of going to the Center. I’ve worked through a lot of the emotions… and I think I’m ready to try again. With you.”

Bokuto swallowed hard. He knew the exact day he last had sex with anything other than his hand and he was suddenly hot all over at the idea that he would get to do it again. Worry prickled up beside it, too, though. “I mean… I’m okay with that. Obviously. Only if you are.”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t really want to.”

Bokuto nodded, squeezing his hand. “Then… yeah.”

Akaashi smiled, standing, leaning over to kiss him. “You smell, though. So go shower. We really should have planned better.”

Bokuto laughed. “If we’d done it next week I could have taken off. We could have gone somewhere.”

“I couldn’t wait that long once we decided.” He smiled, kissing Bokuto’s hand and taking his broccoli back to the kitchen. Bokuto went to take a shower, wanting to rush, but also knowing that Akaashi probably asked him to shower not only because he really did smell, a little bit, but also so that Akaashi could take some time to himself to gather his thoughts. He heard Akaashi come into the bathroom to do his nightly routine and Bokuto made sure to let him do it without interruption. When Akaashi left Bokuto dried his hair, going so far as to actually use the hair dryer, and when he stepped outside into the bedroom he found Akaashi sitting cross legged on the bed wearing only his underwear and watching something on his phone.

Bokuto’s pajamas felt suddenly too small. He’d never seen Akaashi naked and _relaxed_ at the same time. It was more of a turn on than he thought it would be. He moved closer, kneeling on the edge of the bed. “What’cha doing?”

Akaashi looked up and grinned. “Watching porn.”

“…What?”

Akaashi turned his phone and—sure enough. Bokuto blinked at the screen, a little stunned. He’d never thought of Akaashi doing that. Akaashi laughed at his face, turning off his phone and setting it aside. “Just … y’know.” He shrugged, holding out a hand for Bokuto, his ring still on his finger.

Bokuto smiled at the sight, taking his hand and moving closer and kissing him. Akaashi wrapped his arms around Bokuto’s neck, pulling him down so he was laying beside him.

“Why’re you wearing pajamas?” Akaashi said against his mouth, pushing a knee between Bokuto’s legs.

Bokuto hummed a bit, groaning softly. “Thought you’d be more comfortable…”

Akaashi pulled back, frowning at him. “The point of this is to have sex, Koutarou, so clothes are not required. Take them off.”

Nodding, Bokuto shimmied out of his pants, leaving on his underwear simply because Akaashi still wore his. “Can I touch you?”

“Mhm… I think that’d be okay,” Akaashi said, touching Bokuto’s cheeks and kissing him again.

Bokuto was still slow with his hands, careful with how fast he moved. He brushed his fingers across Akaashi’s sides and slid his palms up his back so Akaashi arched his body forward. He spread his fingers wide, wanting to touch as much skin as possible. Akaashi’s breath was hot in his mouth, panting already, his fingers twisting in Bokuto’s hair.

Bokuto slid one hand lower, pressing all the way down his back and pulling Akaashi towards him wanting to touch more—and Akaashi stiffened, his entire body suddenly tensing up like a board.

“Stop,” he mumbled, pulling away.

Bokuto jerked his hands away, leaning back, giving him space. “I’m sorry!”

Akaashi sat up, pressing his hand to his mouth and looking away, very clearly trying to not vanish into his own mind. “It’s… it’s not your fault,” he said, voice soft.

Bokuto sat up on his elbow, worried. He reached out, laying his hand close enough that if Akaashi wanted to he could take his hand, waiting for him to calm down.

Akaashi pressed one hand to his face, his other blindly reaching down to touch Bokuto’s hand. “I didn’t realize… what it would be like. It’s different than just… kissing.”

Bokuto turned his hand and Akaashi traced the calluses on Bokuto’s palm from memory. Bokuto said after a long time, “We could stop. That’s okay.”

Akaashi shook his head. “No I don’t want… to stop. I just…”

Bokuto said gently, “I don’t have to touch you. You can do whatever you feel comfortable doing or not doing.”

Akaashi took a few deep breaths, and nodded. “That could work…”

Bokuto pulled his hand back, holding them up as if showing he wasn’t holding any weapons, then laid back, smiling. Akaashi took a slow breath, then reached out and slid a palm over the broad, strong muscles of Bokuto’s chest. Bokuto’s entire torso was corded with muscles, his arms jumping when Akaashi’s fingers brushed his nipple. He sucked in a breath, watching Akaashi with wide, rapt eyes. Akaashi smiled at him, leaning over to press his mouth to his chest, dragging his nose over smooth, tight skin and the lovely flowers Bokuto had inked into his skin. Since Akaashi had gone to the Center all those months ago, Bokuto had changed his own eating habits, no longer binging on junk food and alcohol, but eating fresh foods and working out more, too. In response, his body had become even more marbled, the strong muscles of his hips and abs more prominent than his hip bones, the sloping _v_ of his abs mouthwatering when Akaashi traced it with his fingers.

He liked touching Bokuto. Liked feeling the muscles tense and relax under his ministrations and finding the places that made Bokuto let out tiny, desperate noises so Akaashi’s own heart fluttered with excitement. His hands spread up Bokuto’s thighs, the soft hair on them an interesting contrast to the smoothness of his chest. He traced the red and pink boiling water scar on his thigh. “I can’t imagine how much this hurt.”

Bokuto somehow managed to shrug laying down. “It was a long time ago. I remember being more scared than hurt.”

Akaashi nodded, slipping his fingers under the hem of his underwear to feel the scar. It was bumpy around the edges but dangerously smooth, showing just how deep the wound had been. Bokuto’s stomach jumped at the contact and Akaashi glanced up, smiling at him. “Tickle?”

“Little bit… plus your hand is awfully close to…”

“Ah.” Akaashi took a moment to calm his racing heart then, thinking that he didn’t want his past to haunt him, that he wanted to enjoy being with _his husband_ on their wedding night, he turned and swung a leg over Bokuto’s thighs. “This time,” he said, his voice shaking a little, “don’t stop. I want to do this.”

Bokuto’s throat worked as he swallowed, his eyes flicking downwards, and Akaashi felt how turned on he was, even as he held himself perfectly still. “…That worries me. If it’s… too much for you I don’t want—”

“Don’t stop unless I _tell_ _you_ to stop, okay? Just be gentle with me.” He leaned forward, his hands on either side of Bokuto’s head, and kissed him. He draped himself along Bokuto’s body, skin to skin, and grabbed Bokuto’s hands to pull them around his back so Bokuto could hold him again. The intimacy of wrapping himself around Bokuto, being enveloped by his warmth, of being wholly present for the act, made everything in him tremble. But he pressed himself harder against Bokuto’s body, letting the knowledge of just how much he _trusted_ Bokuto sink in and override his fear.

He didn’t want to be afraid anymore.

So even though he could barely breathe, even though his heart was beating so fast and hard he was a little dizzy, he kissed Bokuto with all he had, clutching at his hair and arching into his hands as he stroked over Akaashi’s skin. Bokuto kissed him for a long time, everything about it slow and sweet, even his hands stroking in small, soothing circles until Akaashi arched into him, silently begging for more.

The little noises Bokuto was making as he tried to keep himself from moving too quickly were _adorable_. And sexy. And so very, very _Bokuto_. They made Akaashi smile, and it made him happy to realize just how much Bokuto was trying to make sure that he was comfortable. Akaashi discovered that Bokuto’s throat was sensitive, and he _squeaked_ when Akaashi nipped at his earlobe, and he moaned when Akaashi sank his teeth into his shoulder, biting at one of the blue flowers.

It took a long time (longer than Akaashi liked, honestly) for the both of them to gather the courage to actually get naked, but afterwards Akaashi realized that he was _excited_ instead of scared, and had to tell Bokuto multiple times that _yes, this was really happening; no, it didn’t hurt;_ and _oh my god, don’t stop you maniac!_

And later, even though the stars were beginning to vanish as sunrise approached, they stood in the shower together, Akaashi plastering himself against Bokuto and rubbing his nose over the snake on his chest. He couldn’t stop smiling. “Hey, Kou?”

“Mhm?” Bokuto was half asleep, leaning on the wall, his arms around Akaashi’s shoulders.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Mhm-hmm.”

“Am I crazy or…” He looked up, hooking his chin on Bokuto’s shoulder, “or did you shed a few tears?”

Bokuto jerked his head up, spluttering a little. “N-No!” He tightened his arms, his cheeks a bright pink and wouldn’t meet Akaashi’s eye since Akaashi was giggling at him.

“You sure?” Akaashi asked, standing on his toes to touch a kiss to his earlobe, and feeling a shiver run down Bokuto’s arms.

“Yes!” Bokuto said, tightening his arms when Akaashi laughed again. “Don’t laugh at me. Maybe you were just _that good_.”

“Pft,” Akaashi snorted, pulling away to step from under the spray of the water. He could feel Bokuto’s gaze on him as he stepped out of the shower and dug through the box in the bathroom for one of their towels. “We need to buy more,” he said, scrubbing it quickly through his hair and then wrapping it around his waist. “We’ve got like four.”

“We’ll get some this weekend,” Bokuto said. “We need more food, too.”

Akaashi was quiet for so long that Bokuto poked his head out of the shower and Akaashi told him, “I haven’t been in a grocery store in… I don’t know, over a year. Maybe two.”

“No shit?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you… want to go together? There’s a really nice one. Or we could go to the _farmers market_!”

Akaashi looked over at him, smiling at the excitement in his face at the idea of showing him around the stalls. “Sure, Kou. That sounds fun.”


	41. fin

Bokuto thought married life suited him quite well. He’d only been doing it a little over a month, but every time he woke up next to Akaashi—all soft edges and sleepy sighs—he thought that it was impossible to get any happier. But then Akaashi would wake up too and they would cuddle, and talk, and Bokuto would make them breakfast, and sometimes they’d go to work together, and sometimes he’d go to work and text Akaashi all they way to the restaurant, and they never ran out of things to talk about. They never got tired of talking to each other or being around each other. Bokuto sometimes wished he could forego sleep to stay up and just spend _time_ with Akaashi. But Akaashi sleeping was just as perfect, and Bokuto liked to lay beside him and hold him close to feel the steady beat of his heart and rhythm of his breath.

On this particular morning he lay in bed and watched Akaashi smiling in his sleep. He reached out and traced the line of his throat with a knuckle, tucking his face into his pillow to not laugh when Akaashi made a little noise and swatted at his hand before curling up into a ball and tugging the blankets over his head.

His phone buzzed on the bedside table and he snatched it up before the sound woke Akaashi. It was Kuroo. “Dude,” he whispered into the phone, “it’s Monday. Why are you waking me up?”

Kuroo sounded amused. “It’s almost eleven am. Why are you still sleeping?”

“It’s my off day, let me do what I want.”

“Actually, there’s something happening at work. I need you to come in.”

Bokuto groaned softly, leaning against the headboard. Akaashi shifted in his sleep, turning to move closer and slide an arm over Bokuto’s hips. Bokuto smiled down at him, stroking his fingers through his hair, liking how silky soft it was. “I’m busy today.” Akaashi’s eyes opened a fraction, but he was still half-asleep and buried his face in the blankets.

“Bo, I need you,” Kuroo said into the phone. Something was off in his voice but Bokuto couldn’t tell what. There was a little clattering in the background.

Bokuto asked, “What are you doing? Where are you?”

“There’s some—I’m at the restaurant—just come down here. Quick as you can.” He paused, and listened to someone talking to him, then said, as if suddenly remembering,“Bring Keiji, there’s something with the bar inventory that’s weird. Numbers don’t add up.”

“What? You think he stole something? He doesn’t even drink anymore,” Bokuto snapped, then said more quietly, “Neither of us do.”

Kuroo huffed, starting and stopping a few times. “Just come down. Oh, take a shower, too. Text me when you’re on your way.” And he hung up.

Bokuto glared at his phone, sighing and sinking down into the bed. Akaashi snuggled closer, tucking his face into Bokuto’s chest and wrapping his arms around his middle.

“Who’re you talking to?”

“Kuroo called,” Bokuto said, pressing a kiss to Akaashi’s hair.

He could feel Akaashi’s smile against his chest. “You tell him to shut up and stop calling you?”

“Yeah,” Bokuto laughed, “but he told us we need to go to the restaurant.”

“What, why?” He wiggled upwards, dragging his nose along Bokuto’s throat. “Besides, can’t go. I’ve got my appointment today.”

“Oh that’s right.” Bokuto wrapped one arm around him, laying back and pulling Akaashi against him. He flipped his phone around and typed one handed while Akaashi kissed his throat: _keiji cn’t come. dr appt._ Then he dropped it and slid both hands over Akaashi’s hair so he could pull him up and kiss him. Akaashi pressed himself closer and sighed into his mouth as Bokuto stroked a hand down his spine, spreading across his hip.

His phone buzzed.

Bokuto groaned in frustration and dropped his head back as Akaashi slid downward, nibbling his way across his collarbone and touching his lips to the head of the snake on his chest.

“Don’t answer it.”

“It’s Kuroo,” Bokuto said, sighing and picking it up, glancing at the screen while stroking Akaashi’s head.

_cancel it. both of you come in and i’ll give you a week off._

Bokuto blinked at the screen, patting Akaashi’s head to get his attention. “Hey, look.”

Akaashi turned his head to read the screen and sighed, slumping against him, pouting a little. “That’s a good deal.”

“Want to take him up on it?”

“You really think he’ll give us a week off?” Akaashi asked, raising his eyebrows and looking up at him.

“Probably.”

Akaashi let out a long, deep seated sigh and rolled off him, clambering off the bed. Bokuto slid a longing hand over his ass until Akaashi waved his hand away. “Come on, let’s go so we can get it over with.”

 

* * *

 

When they walked in the backdoor of _je sais pas_ the kitchen was bubbling with life. No one was _in_ the kitchen, but the air was warm and moist with recent use. The overhead hoods were on and there was food lined up along the hot plate and in the warming oven. “The fuck?” Bokuto said, gazing around, looking suddenly worried.

Kuroo poked his head in, then shouted into the dining room, “Hey! Come on,” and came inside the kitchen. He was wearing a full suit: lapels, cufflinks, a tie, and all.

Bokuto cocked his head at the sight. “Why are you—”

“Come on,” Kuroo said, waving at the both of them. “Your turn. Did you shower?” He leaned close and sniffed Bokuto.

Bokuto didn’t even push him away, just frowned at him. “What the fuck—”

And then Akaashi almost shouted in surprise, “Mattsun! Makki?” The two other models appeared in the kitchen, striding over towards them. They were dressed formally, too: Mattsun looking like a sheathed blade in a full black suit and tie; Makki like a summer flower in a soft pastel blue shirt with suspenders and a little bow tie.

They both took one of Akaashi’s hands and pulled him towards the hallway that led to the locker room. “What are you doing here?” Akaashi asked, too stunned to stop them. Kuroo threw an arm over Bokuto’s shoulders and steered him along with them.

Bokuto stumbled a bit as he looked back at the kitchen, flabbergasted and confused. “What’s going on?”

Makki giggled. “You really thought you had to come here to _work?_ Dummy.”

Bokuto snorted and kicked at him as they walked. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Hey! Don’t dirty up my pants, you caveman!”

Just as they got to the door of the locker room Bokuto heard someone moving around in the pastry shop and he raised up on his toes to try and see in the window, but Kuroo put a hand on his head to pull him inside. “No peeking,” Kuroo said, then: “Did you even brush your hair? Bo, come _on_.”

Bokuto shrugged off his hand, glancing at him then at the two clothing bags hanging from hooks. “What the hell is happening?”

Mattsun said, “Put those on. I guessed your size, Bo. If it doesn’t fit, I’m sorry.”

“My size for _what?_ ” Bokuto spun, looking at the three of them as if they’d gone crazy.

Akaashi was smiling as he unzipped one of the bags to reveal another sleek black suit and crisp white shirt. “Oh, I see. I have a suit, though. You could have told me.”

Kuroo gestured to Mattsun and said, “He told me they had to match, so Kei and I bought these for you. Wedding gift.” He nudged Bokuto with an elbow. “What grown-ass adult man doesn’t own a suit?”

Bokuto frowned at him, stepping away. “What is going on?”

Rolling his eyes, Mattsun explained, “We were mad you got married without us. We decided to throw you a wedding. Get over it and put on the damn suit.”

“You… you’re what?”

With a little grin on his face Makki muttered, “Oh my god—dumb _ass_.”

Kuroo waved him down and explained, “Your friend called me and we both expressed frustration and disappointment at not having been a part of our best friends’ wedding, so we decided to throw you one. It’s all set up. Catering, cake, officiant, the works.”

Mattsun said, “We even found a photographer. So”—he threw a meaningful glance towards the other suit bag—“get fucking dressed and come out when you’re done. And hurry, we don’t have all day.” And when Bokuto nodded he turned to Akaashi and held out his hand. “Give me your ring. We’re gonna do this right.”

Akaashi stared at him, eyes wide. While Bokuto had to take his ring off at least once a day for work, Akaashi had never removed his, not once, since putting it on at the courthouse. Bokuto saw his hand clench a little as he tucked it against his side. “I don’t…want to…”

Mattsun made an impatient gesture. “I won’t lose it, I promise. Just ten minutes and you’ll get it back.”

“You, too,” Kuroo said, touching Bokuto’s hand.

And even though Bokuto trusted Kuroo with his life, an inkling of cold nervous fear trickled into his belly. “What, really?”

“Yes, really,” Mattsun barked, impatient. Bokuto knew that he was used to being obeyed the moment he spoke, so their questioning of him was making him annoyed.

Bokuto moved over to Akaashi, touching his wrist and saying softly, “You don’t have to.”

Akaashi was quiet for a long moment, staring at the ring on his finger and twisting it nervously. Bokuto could see the internal battle he had with himself as he fiddled with it and wanted to tell Mattsun and Kuroo that this wasn’t necessary—but just as he was about to speak Akaashi took a deep breath and carefully tugged it off of his finger. Mattsun held out his hand and Akaashi laid it in his palm saying, “Please be careful with it.”

“Of course,” Mattsun promised, curling his fingers protectively around it.

So Bokuto handed his over and the others left them to change, telling them that they really _should_ hurry because people were waiting for them. Bokuto was pulling on the crisp pants that still smelled of the store when he saw the price tag tucked against the waist and let out a small whistle. “Damn, Kuroo went all out.”

“Mattsun probably picked them out. He’s got expensive tastes,” Akaashi said as he glanced in a tiny mirror to fix the collar of his shirt.

Bokuto laughed as he tucked his shirt in and said, “I haven’t worn something this nice since my sister’s wedding.” He frowned down at the buttons. “God, I hate buttons.”

Akaashi laughed and stepped over to him, moving his hands and doing up the buttons himself, then slipping the slim black tie around his neck. “You look very handsome, though.”

Bokuto watched Akaashi expertly flip the fabric into a delicate knot. He liked how sure his hands were and leaned down to catch a quick kiss. “So Mattsun didn’t tell you about this?”

“No, not a word,” Akaashi said, tightening the tie and reaching up to slide his fingers in Bokuto’s hair, presumably to make it more presentable. “I think if they had I’d have made you brush your hair before we left the apartment.”

“Guess so…” Bokuto closed his eyes to better appreciate Akaashi’s fingers in his hair.

“Come on,” Akaashi said, pulling away. “We better hurry.”

After they finished changing and Akaashi spent several minutes straightening and fixing Bokuto’s suit (he, of course, looked perfect and Bokuto told him several times just how handsome he was), they left the locker room and saw Yaku coming out of the pastry shop.

“Hey, man,” Bokuto said, smiling.

Yaku looked them over, nodding approvingly. He was taking off an apron and Bokuto saw that he wore a very nice shirt underneath, too. “Hey. Congratulations,” he told the two of them.

Akaashi smiled at him—he was always polite to the kitchen staff so as not to get on their bad side. “Thank you. I like your shirt, you clean up very well.”

Bokuto asked, “What were you doing in there?”

“None of your business—yet.” Yaku said, actually laughing a little. “I’ll be out in a bit, just need to get my jacket. You two go on, I’m sure Kuroo’s getting impatient.”

Akaashi thanked him and slipped a hand through Bokuto’s arm to pull him out of the tiny hallway and through to the dining room. Bokuto tried to see the foods that had been prepared but Akaashi was excited, and told him that clearly this was all meant to be a surprise, so they should _let_ it be a surprise. When they stepped into the dining room Akaashi let out a joyous laugh at all the people that had gathered. The dining room was full to the brim with the entire staff of _je sais pas_ , both the kitchen staff for Bokuto and the front of house for Akaashi because he’d grown close to many of them since he’d been at the restaurant; even Kenma made an appearance standing next to Hinata as he waved at them; a bunch of tall, beautiful people that Bokuto didn’t recognize but assumed were Akaashi’s modeling friends; and even Saeko and her girlfriend Alisa were there. Akaashi peeled away from Bokuto and rushed to hug some of the models, and Bokuto was pleased to see how much he’d been loved by them as they enveloped him in hugs.

Saeko came to him and Bokuto picked her up in a big bear hug. She giggled and squirmed in his arms and when he set her down he kissed her cheek in greeting. “Hey, pretty lady.”

She smiled up at him, touching his shoulder that she was intimately familiar with, having spent several days leaning over it. “You taking care of that?”

“Of course!” he promised. When Alisa moved over he gave her a hug too since they’d talked while Saeko had been concentrating with a needle in his skin. “I’m glad you were invited.”

Alisa said, “When Lev heard about it he made sure to tell us and insisted that we be invited, since we all got so close at the shop.”

Bokuto put an arm around each of them and hugged them again. “That makes me so happy!”

Behind him Mattsun said, “Come on, you can catch up after. That’s what receptions are for.”

Turning to look, Bokuto saw that he was pointing to a tiny archway that had been set up against the wall and covered in fake but pretty flowers. Kuroo was already there waiting, and so was Tsukishima. Mattsun pushed Bokuto towards it and then slipped into the crowd of models to detach Akaashi from them.

“I thought you had to have a priest or something to get married,” Bokuto said.

Tsukishima, who was dressed in a sharply fitting suit with a slender red tie, smiled at him and said, “Not necessarily. I got registered as an officiant for my friend Tadashi’s wedding. Kuroo thought I could do yours, too.”

“Oh,” Bokuto was shocked, but pleased, “that’s really cool! How’d you manage this?” he asked Kuroo. “How the fuck didn’t I know about this?”

Kuroo looked absolutely much too pleased with himself. “Carefully, _mon frère,_ very carefully.”

Mattsun was pulling Akaashi towards the front of the room, having to wait every few moments as Akaashi saw someone else—Saeko and Alisa, then some of the waitresses—and stopped to hug them. He got to the front of the room and Akaashi met Bokuto’s eye, unable to stop smiling. “Can you believe this?”

“It’s wonderful,” Bokuto said, taking his hand.

Mattsun waved his hand for silence and moved to stand beside Akaashi. “Oh!” Akaashi gasped, still smiling but suddenly flushed pink as the dull chatter quieted. “So soon?”

Kuroo smiled at him, patting Bokuto’s shoulder before stepping aside. “It’s what we’re here for.”

“Suddenly I’m nervous,” Akaashi whispered to Bokuto but before Bokuto could comfort him Tsukishima cleared his throat and began to speak.

“Well,” he said, in a much louder voice than Bokuto had ever heard him use to be heard across the dining room, “thank you all for coming to celebrate with us and bear witness to the exchanging of vows between these two men.” He paused, looking between Akaashi and Bokuto, a little tilt to his lips. “A marriage is a wonderful thing to share. It is done to the exclusion of all others, and is entered into with the hope that it will last for life. Before you make your vows, it is tradition that you acknowledge your intent to wed.”

Bokuto muttered, “We’re already—” but Akaashi kicked him in the ankle and he shut up.

Tsukishima was continuing as if he hadn’t been interrupted: “Koutarou, do you come here freely and without any reservation to give yourself in marriage?”

“Yeah,” Bokuto said enthusiastically. “Duh. Of course.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Kuroo press a hand to his face. “Oh my god.”

And Akaashi rolled his eyes, biting his lip not to smile.

“Oh, wait,” Bokuto said, remembering tradition, “I mean— _I do_.”

Tsukishima took a deep breath and nodded, turning to Akaashi. “And, Keiji, do you come here freely and without reservation to give yourself to Koutarou?” He looked like he wanted to say something other than his _name_ but managed to control himself.

Akaashi said with considerable acumen, “I do.”

“Wonderful.” Tsukishima nodded. “And if you’ll face each other and hold hands. Now, Keiji, if you’ll repeat—”

“Wait,” Akaashi said, softly, nervously, “I’d like to say my own vows.”

Tsukishima blinked at him then nodded and took a tiny step back. “Go ahead.”

Akaashi smiled and turned to Bokuto, reaching out and taking both his hands. “Koutarou, I know we kind of… rushed into this, but I do think it’s the best decision I’ve ever made. And I’m so excited to start _our_ life— _together_. I couldn’t imagine my life any other way than with you. You make me so happy, and”—he paused, gathering his thoughts—“I vow to always cherish you, mind, body, and soul, forever. What’s the phrase? Till death do us part? But,” he laughed a little, breathless and with a quiver to his words, “even that seems like much too soon. Forever is forever, and you’re my soulmate ‘till the end of time.”

Bokuto squeezed his hands, wanting to kiss him but also knowing that he was supposed to wait.

Tsukishima nodded. “And you, Koutarou? Would you—”

“Yes!” Bokuto said, then paused, because _yes,_ he wanted to say something, but he wasn’t quite sure how to articulate the feelings rolling around in him. He opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t, and instead looked down at Akaashi’s hands, pressing his thumbs into Akaashi’s palms. The moment stretched for so long he heard several people whispering in the crowd and Akaashi leaned close, looking worried.

“Keiji…” Bokuto began, having to swallow a lump in his throat. “I… Sorry, I—uhm. I want to tell you that we’ll have the perfect life, but I don’t think I can.”

From behind him Kuroo whispered, “Dude, what—”

“I mean,” Bokuto said, shaking his head a little, “I know we’re probably going to fight sometimes. But I promise that I’ll always do my best to make sure that we never go to bed angry. I promise you that I’ll always be there for you, that I’ll always support you in whatever your heart desires. I…” He closed his eyes, pulling Akaashi’s hands up to press a kiss to his knuckles so he could take a moment to compose himself. “Damn you, Keiji,” he said with a little rough laugh, “you’re making me feel things.” Akaashi laughed, and his laugh and his smile lit up the room in a way that nothing else did, not even the sun coming in through the windows. “From the moment you entered my life I think we’ve both felt it… the connection we have. I don’t know what it is, but I know it’s _right._ Down to my very core I _know_ it’s right. I know _you’re_ right. I know that we’re made for each other. I know that I’d be lost without you, and that I wouldn’t be the man I am today without you. You make me a better person. You make me a more thoughtful person. You make me …” he stopped, shaking his head a little, overwhelmed. “Happy.”

Akaashi blinked at him, and had to pull one hand away to swipe the back of his hand over his eye. “Can I do mine again?” he asked, but was grinning, and shaking his head a little.

Bokuto told him, “You were perfect.”

Tsukishima waved between them. “And the rings?” He looked at Kuroo, and Kuroo stepped forward to hold out the tiny gold and black ring for Bokuto to take. Tsukishima told them what to say as they put the rings on each other’s fingers. It was the same, a monologue about how rings were circular to represent eternity and infinite love. Bokuto didn’t _really_ hear the words because he was taking special care to not fuck it up or drop the ring since his hands were shaking.

The simple act of pushing the ring over Akaashi’s knuckle and letting it settle into place was a memory that Bokuto wanted to cherish forever. It was different than when he’d put the ring on at the courthouse, somehow. Even though they were surrounded by people this felt more intimate than the last time.

Tsukishima said, “I hope these rings remind you each day that your love will last forever. May you cherish the union you share, and the home you will create with one another, and may all the years to come be filled with moments to celebrate your love. And now, by the power vested in me by the State of New York, it is my honor to declare you wed.”

Bokuto said excitedly, “So we can kiss now?”

Mattsun and Kuroo both rolled their eyes—matching pillars of annoyance—but Bokuto ignored them and Tsukishima laughed. “Of course.”

Akaashi stepped into Bokuto’s arms and threw his arms around Bokuto’s neck, letting himself be picked up and kissed _thoroughly_. The crowd around them clapped and someone whistled at them. Bokuto set Akaashi down, then took his face in his hands and kept kissing him, holding him close and cupping his fingers in Akaashi’s hair.

“May I…” Tsukishima said slowly, waiting until Bokuto and Akaashi separated, “present—the newlyweds.”

They clasped hands as their gathered friends clapped for them, and then Kuroo said to Bokuto, “You wouldn't want to help cater your own wedding, would you?”

 

* * *

 

The reception was just a big party, and if there was one thing that could be done when you had a bunch of chefs as friends, it was throw a party.

Akaashi marveled at the food—lobster and veal, fresh pastries and homemade butters, Swedish chocolates, tiny sandwiches, and ‘shrimp’n grits’, which Bokuto was excited over, and then stunned to an awed silence when he ate it, telling Yuuki that he'd done it _right._ Once during the meal Bokuto leaned over and whispered to Akaashi, “You doin’ okay?”

And Akaashi said, licking at a spoon with Kuroo’s lobster bisque he loved so much, “Perfect.”

He was able to catch up with his old friends from the agency. Not one of them asked him if he was coming back, which Akaashi was grateful for and assumed Mattsun or Makki had a hand in. There was a photographer and her assistant that flitted around snapping pictures—but she was good at her job because Akaashi barely noticed her. The cameras didn't worry him the way they once did. He didn't care _what_ he looked like on film because he knew that he looked _happy_ standing hand in hand with Bokuto. He couldn't stop smiling. He smiled so much his face hurt. But anytime he glanced at Bokuto and found him already watching him, Akaashi’s face broke out in an even bigger grin and he had to lean his face up for another kiss.

Halfway through the party Yaku and Suga brought out a big round table and Lev backed out of the kitchen carrying a three tier cake that made Akaashi gasp in surprise and delight.

Bokuto whispered as he watched Lev carry the cake, “You sure that's a good idea?”

Yaku nodded, straightening a cloth over the table he'd set up. “I trust him.”

The cake made it to the table without incident, and Akaashi darted forward to gush over it. “It's so pretty!” The cake was very obviously decorated by Yaku: pale, elegant, and lovely, with intricate lace piping and bright pops of color in the form of various flowers that had been made out of gum paste or white chocolate. “Thank you,” he said to the Lev and Yaku, so sincerely that Bokuto and Kuroo scoffed.

Bokuto moved to his side to look at the cake too, and said, “Damn, you just trying to show off?”

Yaku laughed, shrugging in a _what can you do_ motion. Suga inched forward and pointed to the cake topper and Akaashi smiled even wider. “Oh! Kou, look, it’s us!”

“I hoped you’d like them. I tried to make Bokuto’s true to life, but his big fat head kept falling off.”

“Hey!”

Akaashi giggled, touching Bokuto’s chest to calm him. “They’re precious, Suga, thank you.”

“Here,” Yaku said, handing Akaashi a large knife. “Do a small piece from the bottom and I’ll finish serving it when you’re done.”

Akaashi blinked, holding the knife and entirely unsure what to do with it or how to hold it and feeling like he might accidentally cut someone or himself or poke an eye out. “Wait—”

“Like this,” Bokuto said, sliding in beside him and rearranging his fingers on it. The people in the dining room had quieted when the cake was brought out and were watching them. “Come on, we can cut it so we can have some. Yaku’s cakes are delicious.”

The actual cutting of the cake was uneventful, since Akaashi was more focused on the feel of Bokuto’s fingers over his, and also not ruining the cake or sending it toppling off the table through some culinary ignorance. He could hear the camera clicking away as people clapped for them. Bokuto was very careful with the tiny piece they cut from the bottom tier, pulling it free and setting it on a little plate that Yaku had provided.

“Want some?” Bokuto asked, even as he picked up half of the cake. He didn’t use silverware and Akaashi narrowed his eyes at him.

“Not if you’re gonna stick that in my face.”

Bokuto’s smirk said he absolutely was going to do that. “I won’t.”

“Liar,” Akaashi huffed, leaning away from him, unable to get away because Bokuto grabbed at his jacket. “Don’t!”

Bokuto smirked, pulling him closer, looking amused the more Akaashi struggled. “It’s tradition. Open up.”

“Koooou,” Akaashi whined, pushing on his chest. Bokuto only laughed and, with an arm around Akaashi’s shoulders, held him close and let him take a bite of the cake before smearing it across his cheeks. “Ugh!” Akaashi shrieked as everyone laughed in a good natured way at his distress. “Ass,” he muttered as Bokuto grinned at him, handing him a napkin so he could clean his face.

“You can do it, too,” Bokuto said, still chuckling, then glancing over Akaashi’s shoulder, and his eyes got a little wide. “Oh, no.”

Someone touched Akaashi’s shoulder and he turned to see Suga with a tiny little cake in his hand. “Thought he’d do that,” Suga said, grinning, excited and amused. “So I made this for you.”

Akaashi cackled, loving the way that Bokuto actually took a step back in surprise. The cake was barely four inches wide, but it was covered in buttercream and zig-zagging lines of chocolate. “Oh, no!” Akaashi said, holding up the cake up. “Don't you dare! You did it to me!”

Bokuto barked a laugh, side-stepping and grabbing Kuroo as a human shield. “A tiny piece!” He ducked around Kuroo as Akaashi moved closer.

Kuroo threw up his hands in defense. “Whoah, whoah—hold up!”

Akaashi grinned at them. “Kuroo, you better move before you get this too.”

Kuroo and Bokuto had a little scuffle before Kuroo had Bokuto held by the arms so that he was captured and laughing nervously at Akaashi wielding a tiny cake.

“Baby, please,” Bokuto’s voice was a nervous lilt, “…my new suit!”

Kuroo didn't let Bokuto go but he added helpfully, “It _was_ expensive.”

Akaashi stepped up to him—those watching hushed amongst titters of laughter—and held the cake up. He laughed at Bokuto’s horrified face as Akaashi moved the cake towards him. But—Akaashi would _never_ ruin a suit so nice. So he touched the top of it to Bokuto’s nose, letting the top smear across his face. Then he set it down and grinned at Bokuto—whose smile was visible through the layer of icing. He stuck his tongue out to lick some of it off as Akaashi laughed and handed him a napkin.

Yaku, chuckling, nudged Bokuto away from the cake. “You’re going to knock it over. I’ll wrap the top tier for you if you want.”

Bokuto wiped the icing from his face. “What for?”

Suga told him, “It’s tradition. You save it for a year and eat it on your anniversary. It’s supposed to be good luck.”

“Ohhh.” Bokuto looked at Akaashi and shrugged. “I didn’t know cake could last that long.”

“As long as you don’t take it out and make sure it stays frozen, it should be fine.”

Akaashi said, “That’d be wonderful, if you would.”

“No problem,” Yaku said. “Here, do you want an actual piece of your cake?” He began cutting pieces from the bottom layer while Suga stepped forward and carefully separated the tiers onto different boards for easier cutting. This time, they actually fed the cake to one another, and Akaashi declared it the best cake he’d ever had.

Later, after most of the food was gone and they’d caught up with their friends, eaten yet more cake, and danced a little when the music was turned up in the restaurant, Akaashi pulled Bokuto aside and said, “I hate to be… rude but…”

Bokuto touched his hand when he trailed off. “Ready to go home?”

He nodded. “It was fun but… it’s a lot.”

“I understand. Can you wait just a bit while I talk to Kuroo?” He winked, leaning down to kiss Akaashi’s cheek. “Gotta check if he meant we really get a week off.”

Akaashi smiled. “That’s fine. I’ll go talk to Mattsun and Makki—thank them for helping with this.”

Bokuto found Kuroo and Tsukishima sitting talking with Daichi and Suga and leaned Kuroo’s shoulder, reaching down to pat his chest. “Yo, were you serious about that week off?”

Kuroo looked up at him—his eyes were a little glassy with how much he’d had to drink. Oikawa had brought way too much champagne and hadn’t hesitated in opening bottle after bottle, even after Bokuto attempted to ‘saber open’ one with a kitchen knife—that had garnered him quite the scolding for from Kuroo, Oikawa, Akaashi, Mattsun, _and_ Kenma, which was an impressive record for him so he wasn’t too upset about it.

“Oh, you believed that?” Kuroo pretended to think for a moment until Tsukishima elbowed him. “Ow! Rude, don’t do that to me.” He said to Bokuto, “Yeah, why not. You wanna take this week or next?”

“Hm… next week. It’ll give us time to pack.”

“Oh?” Suga leaned forward, smiling. “You going to go somewhere cool?”

“Eh,” Bokuto laughed, “I don’t know about _cool_. We were planning to go visit my family. My mom really wants to meet him, and my sister told me she needs to initiate him into the family.”

“Oh, God,” Kuroo laughed. “The fuck does that mean?”

Bokuto chuckled and said, “Well, when she married her husband she made him climb up the giant oak tree in the back yard. So hopefully nothing _bad_.”

Kuroo reached up and hooked his fingers around Bokuto’s neck and said, “If you go you better be _safe_. You know you can’t let anything happen to him down there. Don’t let your family scare him off. You guys are _stupidly_ in love and I need you both whole for the sake of the restaurant.”

Bokuto grinned, leaning his head on Kuroo’s. “I know you love us, dude. We’ll be okay. We were thinking we need to go home now, though.”

Suga pouted. “Already?”

Bokuto winked at him. “Yea, it’s our honeymoon, after all.”

Suga made a _pfft_ noise and leaned against Daichi, scrunching his face up. “You’ve been married over a month!”

“Still—” Bokuto looked down at Kuroo. “We’re gonna head out. Thank you, man, this was really awesome. Tsukki, too, I know Keiji would say this, too—we really appreciate you marrying us. It was nice.”

Tsukishima nodded. “It was my pleasure.”

“Alright,” Kuroo said, “go on. I’ve announced that the restaurant will be closed tomorrow so come back on Wednesday, ok? You can start your week whenever you want, just give me a few days notice.”

“Done deal,” Bokuto said, patting his shoulder again before finding Akaashi being suffocated in Makki’s embrace. “Dude, I need him.”

Makki didn’t let Akaashi g, but loosened his hold enough for Akaashi to emerge giggling from his shoulder. Makki said, “You’re _leaving_?”

“We have to,” Akaashi said, touching his shoulder as he pulled away. “We have to go to the store. We have no food at home.” It wasn’t strictly a _lie_ , they did need to go grocery shopping.

Bokuto reached for him, pulling him close to try to protect him from Makki’s exuberance. “Oh, come on,” Makki said, “there’s food here. Just take some home. Stay a little longer.”

Beside him Mattsun reached up and tugged on the back of Makki’s hair. “Leave them alone,” he told him. Then, to Akaashi and Bokuto: “I hope you enjoyed our little surprise.”

Akaashi reached out and wrapped his arms around Mattsun’s neck in a hug, kissing his cheek even as Mattsun pretended he didn’t like it. “Thank you,” he said. “It was absolutely wonderful.” He pulled away and Bokuto stepped over to hug him too, so tight that Mattsun groaned in imagined pain.

“You’re wonderful,” Bokuto told him, ruffling his hair and laughing as he danced back when Mattsun tried to punch him.

“Bo,” Mattsun said sternly, poking him in the chest, “you take _care_ of that suit. You get it dry cleaned, and you”—these words punctuated with repeated pokes—“ _hang. it. up_. Do you understand me?”

Bokuto smirked at him, winking. “Yes, sir.”

“And I’ve got the photographer’s information. I’ll give her your number so she can contact you when she’s done with the post work.”

It took them over an hour to actually leave the party. They had to say goodbye to almost everyone there, and it seemed that everyone had something to tell them or advice to give them. Each conversation was hurried as they inched their way towards the door. But finally they were on the street, waving for a taxi, Bokuto carrying a deeply saran wrapped cake box that Yaku had pushed into his hands. They dropped into a cab and Akaashi slid against the door, leaning his head back and letting out a deep sigh.

“Jesus,” he said, looking pained. “I should have said something earlier.”

Bokuto set the box aside and scooted over to him. “I’m sorry—we’ll go home and relax for a while. I can go to the store by myself, you don’t have to. I know you like to be alone sometimes.”

Akaashi nodded, muttering a soft, “Thanks,” before he closed his eyes. They were quiet as the cab weaved and bobbed in traffic. Bokuto sat beside him, their legs touching, but just letting Akaashi sit in silence because he seemed like he wanted to. And then when they got home Akaashi began stripping almost before they were fully in the apartment. He dropped his jacket and tie over the back of the couch before he collapsed on it with a deep seated sigh. He stroked a hand over his belly, grimacing. “I ate a lot.”

Bokuto took a moment to put the cake in the freezer, pushing it far back so the opening and closing of the door wouldn’t disturb it. When he came back to the living room he sat beside Akaashi, reaching over and taking his hand from his stomach and massaging his fingers. “Are you okay?”

Akaashi made a little sound in his throat, sinking lower in the couch. “I don’t know… I try not to think about it. The… all of it. Especially when I want this to be a happy day… I don’t want to ruin it.”

Bokuto was already shaking his head. “You won’t ruin anything. Especially not because of how you’re feeling. That’s important to me, and I’d rather you be okay and talking to me than keeping everything all—y’know—bottled up.”

“…Yeah, you say that… but I”—he sighed, taking his hand away. “I just wish it didn’t bother me. Eating so much. I’ve been doing so good, we’re really careful about what we eat and when and it’s all very structured. That’s what I need right now. You make me delicious food and that helps a lot. It’s been so helpful… and I feel like I ruined everything. But I know I shouldn’t. I don’t know how to feel.”

Bokuto said, trying to make him laugh, “But Kuroo’s bisque just _gets you_ , huh?”

To his delight Akaashi _did_ laugh, blushing a bit at the truth of it. “I’m sorry, you know it’s one of my greatest weaknesses.”

“Not anything _I_ make for you—but Kuroo. Yeah, yeah, I get it. I’m just not good enough—” He couldn’t even finish the sentence he was laughing so much when Akaashi turned to him and smacked his chest, not hard.

“You stop that now!” He slid into Bokuto’s lap, burying his face in Bokuto’s neck and hugging him, suddenly somber. “Tell me it’ll be okay…”

“It’ll be okay,” Bokuto said immediately, wrapping his arms around him and hugging him close. “You’re okay. You did good, and we had so much fun, and everyone had a great time at our wedding. I still can’t believe it sometimes, y’know?”

“Mhm…”

“But now we’re home and it’s just us,” Bokuto said softly, stroking a hand up and down his back. “And we can watch all the trash television you like so much and cuddle on the couch. We have tomorrow off, too, so we can do whatever we want. We could go to the zoo, or to a museum, or walk in the park and feed the ducks like you like. Anything you want to do.”

Akaashi nodded against him, slumping down to be more comfortable in his lap. “Let’s stay in all day. We’ll call your family, tell them we’re coming, then figure out what we want to pack…”

“Oh my god,” Bokuto said suddenly as a thought occurred to him. “How many suitcases do you think you’ll need?”

Akaashi pulled away to smile sheepishly. “How many am I allowed?”

Bokuto groaned. “Oh, Jesus. Baby, look, it’s _really hot_ down there, you don’t need a lot of actual clothing. Swear to God.”

Akaashi’s answering smile was equal parts angelic and devious as he whispered, “ _Accessories._ ”

 

* * *

  

Kuroo stood over his pot stirring the caramel inside and glancing nervously at the candy thermometer hooked on the edge. He _hated_ making caramel because it took so goddamn long. This was Yaku’s special caramel, too, so if he couldn’t do it and he had to return to work and _tell_ Yaku he’d fucked it up… Yaku would have a shit fit. And probably never teach him anything ever again.

It was just the two-hundred-fifteen degree hurdle, he told himself. It took _so long_ to cook past that temperature. He sighed, stirring the honey, sugar, and cream mixture while glowering at it and cursing it for being so cumbersome.

Madame perked up from her position on the cat tower they’d bought and stuck in the window so the cats could sunbathe. Kuroo looked to the door just as the key rattled in the lock and Tsukishima stepped in. Snow littered his shoulders and he shivered as he took the knitted hat off his head.

“It’s _so cold_ outside,” he said, shrugging out of his coat and hanging it up beside the door.

“It is October,” Kuroo told him, looking back at his pot. “How’d it go?”

Tsukishima grinned at him, coming over to stand on the other side of the island. “Great—look!” The flush to his cheeks was probably from the cold but also his excitement. He dug around in his bag and produced a small book, which he held out to Kuroo.

“I can’t stop,” Kuroo said, motioning to the pot and his stirring, but leaning over to look. “Is that—oh my god! Your book!”

Tsukishima grinned at him, flipping slowly through the book so Kuroo could see the inside. It was a _real book_ , paperback, with chapter titles, a table of contents, nice spacing, _formatting_. “The cover isn’t done yet, but this was a proof copy for me to do one last read through and make sure that it all looks good.” He was pleased with himself, smiling down at his book.

Kuroo was happy for him, too. Last Christmas he’d started working on short stories about the cats, but they’d evolved, and eventually Kuroo had insisted he send one of them off to see if it had the potential to be published. Kuroo even had a regular at the restaurant that was a copy-editor so he put in a good word and Tsukishima’s first manuscript was shot to the top of _the pile_ before the cut-off date. It had been received well, and since then Tsukishima had worked tirelessly on writing and editing and eventually had a short fifty-thousand word novella that his editor said could be published by Christmas. “Oh,” Kuroo said, reading some of the pages as Tsukishima flipped slowly through the book. “It looks great! They think it’ll come out for Christmas?”

Tsukishima nodded. “Think so, yeah.” He paused, looking over the kitchen counter and the pot on the stove. “What are you doing?”

“Yaku finally taught me his caramel recipe… so I’m making some honey-caramel candies. I saw Semi last week, remember? Fresh Autumnal honey.”

“Ohh,” Tsukishima leaned over to look, but Kuroo poked his face away.

“Not a good idea, in case it bubbles.”

“Ah. So, how is our bee-taming friend?” Tsukishima asked. Monsieur was curling around his feet, meowing up at him so he leaned down to pick him up and held him like an infant, rubbing his belly with a finger. Monsieur was one of the few cats that _liked_ having his belly touched.

“He’s getting married,” Kuroo told him, still stirring. He glared at the pot. It had only gone up one degree since they’d been talking. “If these turn out well I’m going to make some with Tendou’s honey and send some to each of them. I think I’ll include a card with a meal at the restaurant on me, since we use both their honey and Ushijima’s vegetables.”

“Oh, that’s a wonderful idea,” Tsukishima said, smiling and rubbing at Monsieur’s chin with his knuckle. “They’ll like that. It would be good to see the farmers again.”

“Tendou asked about you,” Kuroo told him. “Asked where the _glasses guy that hated bees_ was.”

“I don’t _hate_ bees!” Tsukishima huffed, shaking his head. “I’m going to read this, let me know when you’re done.” He moved to the couch and sat with his book and pet Monsieur, then having to split his attention between the cats as Madame cozied up beside them.

Kuroo watched them, loving the way the three of them looked curled up on the couch together. He liked it so much he almost didn’t notice when his caramel came to temperature. He snatched it off the stove and dropped in the vanilla extract he’d made, then poured it into a large pan lined with parchment. He eyed it for a moment, making sure it didn’t have any bubbles or holes before leaving it to cool while he cleaned the kitchen. By the time he was done it was cool enough that he could sprinkle large, flaky salt over it and cut it into bite sized pieces. He ate half of one, and shivered a little with pleasure then took the other half and went to the couch, leaning over. “Here, open up,” he said, and when Tsukishima did, he placed the little bite of candy on his tongue.

“Mhm,” Tsukishima hummed, nodding. “Yummy.”

Kuroo smiled, tracing his lips with his finger then leaning down to repeat the action with his own mouth. He smiled when Tsukishima licked his mouth open and Kuroo could taste the sweet caramel and honey on his tongue. “Yummy,” Kuroo echoed, cupping his cheek and kissing him again, slow and sweet like honey he’d helped harvest last week.

Then there was a noise very close to his ear and suddenly Madame put her paw on his cheek. He pulled away to frown at her. “Excuse you.” She purred and Monsieur squirmed on Tsukishima’s lap. “These fucking cats!”

Tsukishima laughed again, leaning away. “This is your fault for _spoiling_ them.”

Kuroo rolled his eyes, grinning. “Don’t pet parent shame me.”

“I’m shaming you. Here, take him.” Tsukishima sat forward, pushing Monsieur into Kuroo’s arms.

“I’m not done with my caramel. I’ve got to wrap them. There’s like fifty of them.”

“You can be done for a few minutes, though?”

Kuroo hesitated, but nodded, and took the cat so he didn’t start whining. Tsukishima stood and retrieved his bag, digging through it and pulling out a little red box wrapped in gold ribbon and sitting back beside them. He traded the cat for the box and motioned for Kuroo to open it.

“What’s this?”

“A gift.”

Kuroo rolled his eyes but pulled the ribbon off and opened the box. Inside was a little red book with white letters written across it: _Michelin Guide New York City_. His heart stuttered in his chest and his breath caught. “Ah…”

Tsukishima smiled at him, petting Monsieur so that his purring was the loudest thing in the apartment. “Open it. I put a bookmark in there for you.”

Kuroo looked down and saw a little gold ribbon poking out between the pages. He pulled it open to the page and found that suddenly his chest was too tight and his face was hot. “Oh my god.”

The page that had been bookmarked had _je sais pas_ at the top, and _his name_ as head chef. _His name_. In the Michelin Guide. He glanced over the page, skimming the opinion section: _A young chef… classic French cuisine made new… exquisite flavors… wonderful selection of wine… desserts to rival that of any in France_.

And beside the name was a little symbol—it looked more like a flower but it was, in fact, _a Michelin Star_. He’d done it. His team had done it. All they’d worked for. He leaned back, stunned to silence, unable to form words. His throat had a very significant lump that he couldn’t swallow and he pressed his hands over his eyes, laughing—sobbing?

Tsukishima set the cats on the floor and leaned close to him, brushing his nose across Kuroo’s cheek. “You did it, my love. You got your star.”

“Ah, fuck,” Kuroo managed, his voice wet and thick. “I can’t believe—” He laughed again, all his hard work over the last year and a half since opening his restaurant coming to a culmination. He felt tears on his cheek as he began to shake. “I—We—I have to tell—”

Tsukishima touched his cheek with cool, gentle fingertips. “Take a breath.” Kuroo did so, and Tsukishima said, “You did good.” Kuroo nodded, and Tsukishima kissed him again before settling in beside him. “I’m very proud of you, Tetsu.”

Kuroo nodded again, taking purposeful, rhythmic breaths. “Ah, fuck, okay. Ok, ok, ok, ok.” He swiped his hands across his cheeks, pretending that there weren’t tears there. He took out his phone and snapped a picture of the page and sent it to the group text with Bokuto, Suga, Yaku, and Oikawa with the words: _we did it! party next week—on me. spread the word._

He set his phone down and turned to Tsukishima, wrapping his arms around him and hugging him close. “Thank you,” he whispered, “for believing in me.”

Tsukishima stroked his arms with his fingers, kissing his cheek. “You make it easy to believe in you. You’re the best chef I know.”

Kuroo chuckled but before he could answer his phone buzzed and he glanced at it. It was Bokuto and, in true Bokuto fashion, he was both amusing and inspiring.

_fuk yea! there are 3 rite? so we got two more to go. lets hit it and get it!_

Tsukishima laughed when Kuroo showed him the text. “He’s so vulgar.”

Kuroo grinned, leaning his forehead against Tsukishima’s, looking down at the phone and Bokuto’s message underneath the picture of their star. “He’s not wrong, though.”

“Better get started, then.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhh~ _C'est fini!_ This has been a long, wild journey for me and I'm eternally grateful for everyone who supported me along the way -- comments, kudos, messages, and everything else. Each and every one made my heart so very happy and made my day! I'd like to especially thank Stacy who helped me plan this WAY back in October; Ash who helped me figure out all my plot holes and was an AMAZING beta and encouraging me when I felt like giving up; and my best friend Danielle, who provided unconditional support every day even when she didn't know what I was talking about.
> 
> I hope the end was to your tastes and that you enjoyed it! I've been reading through trying to edit and ~~will update all the chapter texts soon~~ have updated the chapter text! Mostly I just fix typos, some grammar stuff, and some inconsistencies that come from writing some chapters months apart. Whoops! Sorry about that. 
> 
> While this is the end of the main story, this is by no means the end of the series. I'm planning MANY side-stories about a bunch of the couples and some funny one-shots that I couldn't find a place for in here. If there are any characters you'd like to know more about, let me know and I'll see if there's a story there to write (there probably is). 
> 
> Anyway, thank you SO MUCH for reading. It has brought me so much joy to share this with all of you <3 If anyone wants to talk about HQ or literally anything hit me up on Twitter! @volleydorkscen1 I’d love to chat :)


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